The campus was massive.
So much so that every building—though marked with distinct purposes—looked nearly identical at first glance.
If it weren’t for my mory, I would’ve been wandering in circles like a lost tourist.
But thanks to the fragnted pieces of Noah’s retained knowledge, I managed to navigate the sprawling layout and find the Magic Engineering Tower, or the Tower, where the Magic Engineering Departnt (D) was located.
The tower stood proudly on the eastern edge of the campus grounds, slightly tucked away from the main academic buildings.
Just like everything else in this world, its architecture exuded a fantastical blend of Victorian grandeur and historical fantasy—tall spires, steep slate roofs, intricate iron filigree around the windows, and a set of double-arched oak doors etched with alchemical runes and glowing magical sigils that shimred faintly in the sunlight.
Unlike the rest of the buildings on campus, which glead in pristine shades of white and marble, the Tower was constructed entirely from ash-grey stone, giving it a solemn, almost brooding atmosphere.
The stone was cold to the touch, even under the afternoon sun, and seed to hum with residual mana—no doubt from years of experintal enchantnts and engineering trials conducted within its walls.
It made sense, really.
Magic Engineering wasn’t about elegance or tradition—it was about raw functionality, invention, and dangerous innovation.
The grey was fitting.
A symbol of machinery, alloy, steel, and smoke.
The ground floor was abuzz with quiet activity, containing hybrid rooms that served as both lecture halls and engineering workshops.
The walls were lined with chalkboards, tallic conduits pulsing with energy, and workbenches cluttered with unfinished devices, crystal cores, and brass chanisms.
Each room felt alive, charged with purpose and the sound of gears turning, mana crackling, and pens scribbling notes in the margins of blueprints.
The first floor housed sothing rare—an in-built library, a feature no other departnt had save for the prestigious Saint Luka Library itself.
But unlike Saint Luka’s marble-floored grandeur, this one had an academic austerity to it.
Towering shelves cramd with tos on elental convergence, schematic theory, rune calibration, and countless volus of magical physics lined the arched room.
Glass-dod lanterns hovered in the air, casting a steady light over long reading tables worn smooth by generations of students.
I hadn’t ventured to the top two floors, but I knew enough.
Most likely, they held faculty offices, personal research quarters, storerooms, and perhaps even a few restricted laboratories for experints too dangerous to conduct in public areas.
And as I stood in the main corridor, absorbing the heavy scent of old parchnt, molten steel, and dusted magic, a voice broke through the mont.
"Oh, Senior Professor Noah... What a pleasant surprise eting you here."
I turned my head.
A man approached—dressed in an immaculate black trench coat, gloves to match, and thin-rimd glasses perched delicately on his nose.
His hair was slicked back in a swoop almost identical to mine—too perfect, like he woke up and imdiately wanted to prove a point.
So much so that it was weird...as if I was looking at myself.
"I thought the classes begin tomorrow..." he said, his smile all politeness, eyes sharp with layered intent.
I t his gaze coolly.
"Do I need a reason to visit the Tower as its Senior Instructor?"
My voice was flat.
Blunt.
"Still as cold as ever," he murmured with a mock sigh, before continuing.
"I also heard that your course this year will be a combination of different year students... An unconventional change."
His tone was syrupy sweet.
The kind that made you itch.
"I do hope," he added, "you’re able to manage—and thrive—with the sudden shift."
His words painted as encouragent, but everything in his deanor prayed for my failure.
I could feel it.
And by the cold stiffness in my chest, so could this body.
Scholar rivals, maybe.
No. Definitely.
"I also look forward to seeing what research you’ll present at The Summit," he said before pivoting on his heel and strolling down the corridor like a man on stage.
Professor Brael Von Kaelyn.
That was his na.
Even as Ju-Won, I could imdiately tell—he was a bastard.
The disgusting, cunning kind.
One who wore civility like armor and manipulation like perfu.
I exhaled deeply, shaking my head.
"I already have too much on my plate," I muttered under my breath.
"I won’t engage in his bickers and provocations."
I couldn’t afford to.
I could barely map out my own survival.
But regardless... I’d keep him in mind.
A roadblock.
And more importantly, a potential death variable.
Eventually, I found my designated workshop:
[WS 1-8]
It was... cleaner than I expected.
The room carried the sterile scent of polished steel and treated wood, with a strange undercurrent of burnt crystal—a scent unique to failed mana-core experints.
The podium stood near the front, elevated slightly and fashioned from reinforced tal.
On it, a plaque embedded with the emblem of the departnt: three interlocking magical gears, etched into the surface, and behind them, the letters T, stylized to resemble a rising tower.
A symbol of progress, structure, and innovation.
The desks were aligned in ascending rows, almost like an amphitheater, allowing every student a clear view of the board and the podium.
Each desk was long, fitted with storage compartnts beneath, and enchanted with safety runes in case of accidents.
I noticed several still had tools tucked underneath—mana drivers, gear extractors, crystal testers.
At the corners of the room, large windows frad the outside.
They were tall and arched, wide enough to let in fresh air—and likely designed to allow swift ventilation in case of smoke or magical backlash.
Safety by design.
Behind the final row of desks, lining the back wall, were tall shelves filled with books and guides.
I wandered over, running my fingers along the spines.
Beginner-level engineering theory, spell-infused gear design, manuals for mana-conversion arrays, dissertations on machine-rune interactions, blueprints from past projects across years.
The selection was surprisingly robust.
And interesting.
"From a Korean corporate office worker to an instructor in magic..."
I muttered, letting out a small laugh.
The absurdity was still fresh.
I passed a few more desks, glancing at the tools, ntally cataloguing them.
Then back to the books. This room wasn’t just a classroom. It was a workshop, a lab, a testing ground.
It was where future Magitech Engineers were made.
And now I was supposed to teach them?
All of them?
Teaching was one thing.
But now that I’d been told different years would be mixed into a single class, it felt like a whole different challenge.
And worst of all, the other instructors were expecting to be so sort of prodigy. A well of infinite knowledge.
But strangely enough... there was enough I did know.
Thanks to this body.
Thanks to Noah’s residual mories.
Maybe, just maybe, I could wing it.
Tomorrow would be the first test.
To see what the students knew.
To see what I could pull off.
I’m still Ju-Won, even if I wear Noah’s face.
I have to prepare.
There’s only so much a person can change—
Even when switching bodies.
***
After checking out the workshop and ntally taking note of its layout and resources, I decided it was ti to head back to my office.
With tomorrow’s classes approaching, I thought about discussing the curriculum and the mix of year levels with Clara—there were bound to be complications, and her insight could help.
The hallways were quieter now, the echoes of distant footsteps bouncing faintly against the grey stone walls and arched ceilings.
I turned a corner, my mind still lost in logistical concerns, when soone suddenly barreled into .
Everything the person had been carrying toppled into the air—small, colorful items spinning in a chaotic arc before falling to the floor with soft thuds.
One particular item landed squarely on my face, montarily obscuring my vision.
I slowly peeled it off and looked at it.
It was a blazer.
White, smooth to the touch, with golden linings that traced its edges delicately.
The buttons were polished gold, ornate and regal, and the cufflinks shimred like miniature emblems.
It looked hand-tailored, ceremonial almost—similar to the outfit I’d worn to my Welco Party, though arguably more refined.
"...This looks good..."
I murmured under my breath, running a thumb along one of the gold trims.
Scattered around my feet were more embroidery materials—threads, folded cloth, thimbles, delicate needles in small wooden cases, and even a sketchbook partially open, revealing design patterns.
That’s when I finally looked down to see who I had collided with.
She was on the floor, rubbing her head and sitting amid the chaos like a character straight out of a visual novel—because she was.
My eyes widened.
The face before was unmistakable.
One I’d seen countless tis on splash screens, event banners, and dialogue scenes.
It was a face I was more familiar with than most others in this world.
Light pink hair tied into two ssy buns, strands falling out and giving her a slightly clumsy yet endearing look.
Bright blue eyes—wide with panic and concern—t mine.
"Oh my gosh... I’m so sorryyyy!"
She yelped, quickly grabbing the blazer from my hands with a flustered expression.
"I didn’t an to bump into anyone—my arms were full and—and I was just trying to get to the club room before—"
She trailed off as she began scrambling on the floor, trying to gather the spilled items while mumbling more apologies under her breath.
Watching her panic, I couldn’t help but think.
if my sister Hana ever saw this, or even if I told her about it—she wouldn’t believe .
Her favorite character in the entire romance fantasy ga... was talking to .
Interacting with like I was just part of her everyday world.
I silently crouched down and began helping her pick up the items.
She paused for a second, blinking, then offered a sheepish smile.
"Thank you... I was actually waiting for a friend to help move these to the club room..."
She said, voice tinged with a mix of gratitude and nervousness.
"But she’s late... and I thought I could do it myself, but... clearly not."
I didn’t say much.
Just helped.
Folded so of the softer cloth pieces and stacked them carefully.
Once I’d gathered a small bundle in my arms, she looked at again, clearly still a bit embarrassed but thankful.
"Um... do you mind carrying them with ?"
I nodded.
We made our way through the hall, and she led to a door with a small engraved sign reading Creative Stitching and Design Club.
When she pushed it open, I could already tell by the colorful fabrics hanging on the walls, the mannequins dressed in half-complete outfits, and the tables scattered with scissors and pins—this was definitely a room for embroidery or creative arts.
I set the items down on a large table, placing the folded cloths gently beside the thread boxes.
She followed behind, arranging things neatly and muttering to herself as she sorted them.
Then, she turned to thank .
But her expression shifted mid-sentence into one of visible shock.
I followed her gaze down—first to the mirror behind her, then to my reflection.
The crisp white shirt I was wearing had a dark, ugly blotch seeping down from the collar—a bottle of black ink must’ve burst open during the collision and splashed onto .
"Oh no—! I’m so sorry again!"
She gasped, running up to , her hands flailing in panic as she searched for tissues or a cloth.
I didn’t move.
I simply raised a hand, gently patting her on the head as I finally spoke for the first ti since we t.
"It’s okay," I said calmly.
"I’ll clean it."
She nodded slowly, clearly still feeling bad, but I gave her a light look—enough to keep her from apologizing again.
Without another word, I turned and stepped out of the club room, leaving behind the warm sll of fabric and the slightly stunned heroine still standing by the table.
"...looks like this world isn’t going to stop surprising anyti soon."
***
The peaceful hum of fabric and the soft rustling of threads in the club room was abruptly interrupted as the door burst open with a thud.
"Lumi! I’m so, so sorry I’m late!!" a voice cried out.
A girl with short chestnut-brown hair hurried inside, nearly tripping over her own feet as she stumbled past a half-unpacked roll of fabric.
A satchel swung at her side, a few embroidery patterns poking out of the top like crumpled feathers.
Her cheeks were slightly red from running, and she still had a half-eaten taiyaki pastry clamped in one hand.
Lumi, who had just finished neatly arranging a box of gold-thread spools, turned at the commotion.
She tucked a pink strand of hair behind one ear, puffed up her cheeks, and gave an exaggerated little "hmph", complete with a perfectly executed pout.
The brown-haired girl—clearly unfazed—giggled and slid up beside her, wrapping one arm around Lumi in a quick side-hug.
"Forgive , pleaaase?"
She said in a drawn-out whine.
"I’ll get you strawberry pancakes from that café near the library—extra syrup."
Lumi’s pout wavered for a re second.
"...Fine."
"Yay!!"
With that crisis resolved through the irresistible power of pancakes, the brown-haired girl plopped down beside Lumi, brushing a few pins and swatches aside with a lazy flick.
"Anyway... what happened to you? You look like a hot ss."
Lumi looked down at herself—wrinkled skirt, a faint ink stain on her fingers, and a bit of thread stuck to her sleeve.
She let out a small groan and leaned back.
"I fell down carrying all the supplies earlier," she said with a dramatic sigh.
"I ran into soone—like literally.
He helped carry everything here after I spilled it everywhere.
I felt awful... Especially since ink ended up spilling on his pristine white collar."
The girl blinked.
"Wait, wait. Who helped you?"
"I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before..."
Lumi said, tapping a finger to her chin.
"He had really nice black silk hair—pushed back with a few strands falling down from the sides?
And these amber eyes that kind of... glowed when he looked at you.
Oh—and his long blazer had a badge with, like... gears or sothing on it?"
She turned to her friend, only to find her sitting frozen with her mouth wide open.
"What’s wrong?"
Lumi asked, leaning in slightly.
The girl didn’t respond right away, just pointed with her mouth still hanging ajar.
Lumi sighed and gently pushed up her friend’s lower jaw with one finger.
"If you’re going to stare, at least close your mouth."
Her friend snapped out of it.
"Lumi..."
"Yeah?"
"You bumped into the Senior Professor of the Magic Engineering Tower... the head... Senior Instructor Noel."
Lumi tilted her head.
"Oh, so that’s who he was?"
She said with an impish grin, spinning a spool of thread between her fingers.
Her friend stared harder.
"What’s with that expression?!
Sothing I should know?"
Lumi just humd and leaned back against the table, smug and playful.
"Lumi."
"Yeeeaaahhh?"
"That man’s known for being ruthless and cold—like demon cold.
Like, ’If-you-turn-in-a-project-five-minutes-late-he-might-drop-you-in-a-rift’ cold!
Commoners say he speaks in equations and drinks molten mana for breakfast.
Do you know he failed a whole class once for asking him to fix a lamp?"
Lumi blinked.
Slowly, her mouth opened in realization—wide enough to match her friend’s earlier expression.
"Oh noooo... I’m definitely in his bad books," she groaned, her voice small as she sunk behind a stack of cloth.
"He’s going to vaporize ... I’m going to be turned into extra thread."
Just as the dramatics began to peak, the door to the club room swung open once more with a quiet creak.
Both girls turned.
A woman stepped into the room, graceful and commanding, her heels barely making a sound on the wooden floor.
"Oh! Good evening, club patron," the brown-haired girl said quickly, hopping up with a nervous smile.
She had silky white hair that shimred under the warm light, cascading down her back in straight sheets.
Her red eyes swept the room like polished rubies.
She wore a white, form-fitting dress that flared like a bell at the ankles, paired with a crisp white shirt and a small tailored blazer that buttoned neatly at the waist.
Her very presence was like winter elegance made human.
Lumi, still half-collapsed behind a cloth bundle, stared from the floor.
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