"I see you, you little shit."
Noel muttered the words under his breath, just loud enough for himself, eyes locked on the red-haired student sitting three rows ahead.
The guy didn't do much.
He sat straight. Still. Too still. Back just stiff enough to be military, just relaxed enough to not draw attention. He scribbled notes with his right hand and passed silent glances to the two shadows flanking him—his usual crew.
They didn't talk to anyone else.
Didn't look at anyone else.
Every ti a classmate passed close or tried to chat?
Dead stares. Closed-off body language. That subtle shift of the shoulder that scread "don't fucking bother."
It worked.
People avoided them now.
Noel watched them like a hawk.
He shifted in his seat, pen resting between two fingers, barely pretending to pay attention to the lecture.
'I need to learn every twitch of you. How you sit. How you walk. How you breathe. Because in a few weeks, I'll be you.'
The redhead passed a note to the girl on his left—hooded, quiet, dangerous-looking.
She didn't smile.
Just read it. Nodded.
'Cute. Secret little notes in class. Sha I'm gonna steal your fucking face.'
Noel smirked to himself and leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving the target.
Mission was on.
The bell rang. Books slamd shut. Chairs scraped back. Students spilled into the hall like a current breaking through a dam.
Noel didn't move.
Not right away.
He watched.
Redhead and his crew stood up together—like clockwork. Not a word exchanged, but they moved in sync. Too smooth to be casual, too casual to be normal.
'They are strange'.
They exited the classroom without a glance back. Noel waited a solid fifteen seconds, then slipped into the flow of bodies.
He didn't follow directly. That would be stupid.
Two corridors back. Eyes always forward. Head slightly down. He kept a reflective panel in his peripheral vision to catch their angles without being obvious.
The trio moved through the halls like ghosts. Didn't linger. Didn't talk to anyone else. A couple of students tried to wave at them—got the coldest looks imaginable.
'Yeah. No one's joining that little club.'
'Paranoia? Or just elitist assholes? Maybe both.'
The redhead glanced over his shoulder once. Just once.
Noel tilted his head, angled his stride, and let another group of students block the line of sight.
Still in the clear.
They made their way toward the south annex—neutral ground between departnts—then split off.
Sa as yesterday.
He leaned against a pillar, pulled out a worn book, and pretended to read.
Eyes still tracking.
mory still recording.
'I don't need to get close. I just need to be exact.'
Noel's blade sliced through the air, clean and sharp.
Then again.
And again.
The wooden dummy rocked under the impact, mana-reactive runes glowing faintly with each hit.
He moved through his drills with the sa rhythm he'd practiced since day one—fluid transitions, adjusted footwork, perfect control.
And yet... sothing felt off.
Not wrong.
Better.
He wasn't breathing hard. Not like he used to. His stamina wasn't draining the way it should. His reaction speed was tighter. His mana control, cleaner. His strikes?
Sharper.
He paused mid-swing, frowning.
'I've been training daily since I got here, but... this isn't normal.'
'This speed. This strength. The way my mana responds like it's tuned to —it's not just effort.'
He glanced down at his hands. Flexed his fingers.
'The original Noel... he trained too. Hard. Relentlessly.'
'But this body?
'This body? This fucking body is insane.'
'Man, after what I had to live with in my last life, I can actually appreciate it. But holy shit, this is sothing else.'
'Strength, speed, mana, stamina—it's like everything's just... waiting to be used.'
He stepped back, grounded himself, and tried sothing new—mixing a burst of mana into his next strike, not just for speed, but for weight.
The dummy cracked.
Not just the outer layer.
The core split clean.
Noel stared at the shattered wood for a second, then laughed under his breath.
'Alright then. Training's officially over. I'm not just improving anymore—I'm evolving.'
He picked up another training sword—this one heavier—and tested a few one-handed swings while channeling just a touch of mana through his arm.
Fluid. Balanced. No resistance.
Then he did the sa with his off-hand.
Sa result.
'So I can swing like a knight... and cast like a mage.'
He paused, shoulders rising with a deep breath.
'There were magic knights in the story. Monsters, the lot of them. Dual-discipline freaks who tore through armies like butter.'
'They were rare. Feared. Praised.'
He grinned.
Then laughed—low, rough, unhinged.
"Ehehehehe..."
It slipped out before he could stop it.
Eyes wide, grin sharp, posture loose like a predator stretching for the first ti in weeks.
Two students passing nearby slowed.
One of them muttered, just loud enough:
"Did you see that weirdo?"
"Don't look at him, he'll do sothing to us."
Noel blinked.
Cleared his throat.
And instantly dropped his expression back to neutral, like a mask snapping into place.
He turned back toward the dummy and resud his stance, shoulders relaxed, eyes bored.
'Alright, alright... maybe dial it back a notch, Thorne.'
'Can't go full maniac in public.'
Later, in the stillness of his room, Noel sat by the window, staring out at the fading sky. The high from training was gone. That grin from earlier? Nowhere to be found.
Because sothing was always there to kill the mood.
[Quest: Save the World]
That single line, etched into the corner of his vision like a scar he couldn't scrub off.
He didn't need to see it to feel it.
It was always there. Always waiting.
'Save the world,' he muttered bitterly. 'Sure. Easy.'
'You gonna give a roadmap, or am I just supposed to wander around until sothing explodes?'
He leaned back, arms folded.
'I know the disasters. The deaths. The body count.'
'But I don't know the cause. Not the real one. Just how Marcus cleaned up the ss.'
'And that's the difference. That's the reason I can't just sit back and let the story play out.'
'If I wait too long, people die. If I act too early, I might screw it all up.'
He looked down at his hands.
Still steady.
'Doesn't matter. I already died once. I'm not planning to make it a fucking habit.'
The classroom slled like burnt parchnt and mana ink.
The new professor—a wiry man with square glasses and zero chill—paced back and forth in front of the rune-inscribed chalkboard, lecturing at a pace that could break necks.
"Spells are structure. Emotion is power. Lose control of one, you lose the other. You cast fire with your hand, but it starts in the gut. Understood?"
A few students mumbled agreent, clearly already halfway to unconsciousness.
Noel sat near the back, half-tuned in, one leg bouncing under the desk. These kinds of classes were the worst—no movent, no sparring, just diagrams and monologues.
Then soone stood up at the front of the room.
Lady Vivianne Rellhart.
The class rep.
She was tall, graceful in that unshakable noble way, with light auburn hair tied in a silk ribbon and warm hazel eyes that always made her seem approachable—even when she was delivering grim news. Her uniform was pristine, her posture perfect, and her smile so polite it almost felt like a trap.
She cleared her throat gently, and the room imdiately quieted.
"Just a reminder," she said, her tone friendly, "that our first trister exams will begin next week."
Silence.
Total.
Noel blinked once.
Then frowned.
'Wait... what?'
'EXAMS?'
The professor nodded without missing a beat.
"Yes. Written, practical, and interdisciplinary. You'll receive the schedule via your dorm guide later today."
Students around the room groaned, slumped, whispered curses.
Noel just sat there, frozen.
'Next week? That's six days. I haven't even finished half my spellwork notes.'
'I've been chasing shady bastards in tunnels, not revising incantation matrices.'
Vivianne sat back down gracefully, like she hadn't just declared academic war on the entire class.
Noel stared ahead, hollow-eyed.
'I'm gonna die. Not in battle. Not in so grand showdown with a villain.'
'I'm gonna fail a goddamn mana theory exam and get booted for incompetence.'
'I hate this place.'
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