Splash!
I bolted upright as cold water crashed over like a damn waterfall. The shock was instant, violent, and very much unwelco.
It was the kind of cold that made you question your life decisions. The kind that slapped your soul and whispered, "Wake the fuck up."
I gasped, shuddering, my teeth clicking as icy tendrils trickled down my back. My mind was blank—until rage quickly filled the void.
Reflexively, I shot my hand out and grabbed the wrist of the poor bastard responsible.
There was no bucket. Of course not. Why would they use sothing so normal?
No, this genius had used his damn power to conjure water and pour it directly onto like I was so houseplant in desperate need of hydration.
My grip tightened. The shuddering didn’t stop—too cold.
I cracked one eye open.
And lo and behold...
Squirming in my grasp like a guilty wet rat was none other than Art.
’Of fucking course it was this jester of a human being.’
I scowled, gripping his wrist tighter.
Art’s face was a mix of panic and his usual smugness, as if he half-expected this outco. "Hey! Hey!!! You were getting late, man! Didn’t wake up no matter how loud I knocked! This was necessary! STOP! STOP!!"
His voice climbed several octaves as I added just a bit more pressure. Not enough to break anything—yet—but enough to make a point.
Of course, the bastard had enjoyed it. That much was obvious.
Still shivering, I let go and ran a hand through my drenched hair, slicking it back. Water trickled down my jaw and onto the already soaked sheets.
Art took a step back, cradling his hand like I’d shattered every bone in it. Which was hilarious, considering there wasn’t even the faintest red mark on his annoyingly pale skin.
Drama queen.
I gave him a flat glare. "Wait outside. I’m getting ready. We’re going together, got it?"
He nodded like a puppy but couldn’t resist one last jab. "Oh, and by the way... you, uh, kind of stole Emris’s room last night."
I blinked. "What?"
Art rubbed the back of his neck, grinning. "Yeah, you crashed in No. 4. Your actual room’s No. 1. Go there—you’ll find your clothes, gear, and everything else."
His grin was suspiciously pure. Too pure. Like he was holding back a thousand jokes.
But I wasn’t in the mood to spar with words. Not first thing in the morning. Not soaking wet.
I muttered sothing vaguely hostile under my breath, flicked a few water droplets in his direction, and walked out.
The eastern hallway curved slightly, eventually leading to a grand door labeled "No. 1" in elegant golden letters.
As I stepped inside, I had to admit—yeah, this one was bigger.
A lot bigger.
The ceiling alone looked like it could house a wyvern, and the furniture was leagues above what I saw in No. 4. Plush carpets. A private bookshelf. A mana crystal chandelier. Enchanted windows with adjustable tint.
All the comforts of nobility.
Still, I didn’t linger on the aesthetics.
I headed straight to the adjoining bathroom, stripped out of my soaked clothes, and took a long, hot shower. The warmth bled the cold from my bones, relaxing the twitching muscles in my back.
Steam filled the room, fogging the mirrors, and with every second under the water, I felt myself slowly returning to sanity.
Once I was done, I dried off, grabbed the academy uniform laid out neatly in the wardrobe, and dressed.
White shirt with gold linings. A finely embroidered rose—etched in gold thread—rested over the heart. Black trousers, tailored to fit.
There was also a coat. Black. Sleek. High-collared with the academy’s crest over the chest. Most students didn’t wear it—said it was too formal or too stiff.
I wasn’t most students.
I wore it.
Every inch of it radiated refinent, but the inside lining was designed for movent. Efficient and stylish.
I stepped out of the room, rolling my shoulders slightly as I adjusted the coat. The hallway was silent.
No sign of Art.
I narrowed my eyes. ’If he ran off—if he left behind after waking up like that—I will break his legs. Both of them.’
But then after I went outside I caught movent from the corner of my eye.
He was there.
Just outside the dorm, standing under the shade of a tree. Hands in his pockets. Fiddling with a rock like it held the secrets of the universe.
He looked up and saw , grinning like nothing had happened.
I exhaled. Calm. Composed.
But inside?
Still vowing vengeance.
...
Art waved lazily when he saw approach, still toying with the sa rock like it was a precious gem.
"You took your sweet ti," he said with a smirk. "I was about to start carving my na into the pavent from boredom."
I walked past him, brushing his shoulder with mine. "Next ti, knock like a normal person. No waterworks."
He snorted. "That was normal. You’re just a very hard sleeper."
I didn’t respond. My silence was enough.
We started walking through the dorm courtyard—morning sun just barely filtering through the branches of the elms lining the path.
Students passed us by in small groups, all of them in the sa academy uniform. So wore their coats, others slung them over their shoulders like fashion statents. Voices filled the air—excitent, nerves, gossip.
Art nudged with his elbow. "You ready for horoom? Technically this is day one because many examinees were, you know, half dead. "
I gave him a sideways glance. "I will wholeheartedly ignore that and not really. You?"
He shrugged. "I know about our ho room teacher. And let’s just say we don’t have a matching vibe."
’This guy got beaten, day one, for sure.’
We passed through the outer gates of the dorms and into the main campus.
And holy hell.
Even though I’d seen it on the way here during the entrance exam, this was sothing else.
Rose Academy wasn’t just massive. It was a goddamn fortress of opulence and legacy.
The central building stood like a cathedral—ivory marble, adorned with towering spires and rune-etched stained glass. Golden banners fluttered from the high arches, each bearing the academy’s crest: a blooming rose split in half—one side gold, the other black.
We walked under a grand archway where two statues stood: one of a robed woman holding a to, and the other of a warrior clad in ancient armor, his sword sheathed.
"Founders," Art whispered. "Veyna of Insight and Altheron the Blade."
History... wasn’t my best subject.
Walking through the archways and navigating what felt like an endless labyrinth inside the main building,
I started to question whether this place was a prestigious academy or an overdesigned castle ant to flex on common sense.
After what felt like a small pilgrimage, we finally arrived at the third wing of the main building.
And lo and behold, right beside a dical ward—yes, another damn one—stood a plaque etched in silver:
"Class: Platinum A"
’Just how many goddamn dical wards does one school need!?’
Seriously. Were they preparing for a war? A dungeon invasion? Or maybe the staff just expected the students to beat the hell out of each other every other day.
...Okay, that last one might be valid.
Still, I ignored the bubbling storm of complaints in my head, the part of that wanted to rip down every "Infirmary" sign in this damn academy out of sheer spite.
Instead, I followed Art through the tall, double-door entrance into the classroom.
And damn—this wasn’t just a classroom. It looked like a freaking cathedral.
The room was massive, enough to house a hundred students with space to spare. High ceilings arched overhead in gothic symtry, with marble columns rising to support the intricate designs carved into the ceiling.
The walls were white, gleaming under the glow of magic-imbued lamps. The air even slled of lavender.
And the floors—polished to the point I could probably see my soul if I stared long enough.
The seating was arranged in a rising amphitheater style, each tier a step above the last.
The desks were wide and made of so deep brown hardwood—elegant, smooth, and clearly enchanted.
Each bench was ant for two students.
Technically, this was the top 100. But in reality, it was the top 50 academic scorers paired with the top 50 practical/combat scorers.
A hybrid class of monsters, if you will.
Most students were already in their seats, chatting, whispering, or just straight-up pointing fingers. I could practically hear their muttered voices.
And they weren’t exactly subtle about who they were talking about.
Yeah. I was that guy.
Not even five steps in, and I caught people gesturing at while whispering like I was so rare breed of mana-mutated monster.
And then—there he was.
Leon.
Front row. Center seat. Back straight. Arms crossed.
I stared.
’What kind of stain of a protagonist sits in the front row like a teacher’s pet!?’
Was this guy for real? Didn’t he know the rules?
Every real protagonist sits in the back row, by the window, and spends 80% of the class staring dramatically outside like they’re brooding over the fate of the world.
Shaking my head in disappointnt at his utter lack of genre awareness, I followed my instincts and turned toward the one true throne: back corner, window seat.
And there she was.
Alia.
Sitting alone, her chin rested on her hand as she gazed absentmindedly out the window. Morning sunlight caught in her hair, giving her this otherworldly kind of glow.
She didn’t even notice . Not even a flicker of acknowledgnt.
I approached quietly, then gave her a light nudge.
She blinked in surprise, clearly startled, and turned to . Her eyes widened for a second before settling.
"Can you co to this side?" I asked, flashing a disarming smile. "I want that seat... pretty please?"
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