And so, two months passed.
Alex was now certain that the academy truly cared little for commoners.
Thanks to the window in his dorm that overlooked the cafeteria, he'd learned something —nobles were allowed to access it before opening hours, eating in comfort and privacy, away from the "lesser-born."
By word of mouth, he also discovered another truth: nobles could enter the teachers' library, where the lessons were better explained, enhanced by the handwritten annotations of past professors.
Only two teachers stood as exceptions to this rotten favoritism—Scarlett and Fabian.
Scarlett cared little about background; she taught simply because she loved teaching. Fabian, on the other hand, valued only one thing—talent in magic creation. To him, notions of rank and status were nothing but nonsense.
Alex and Marc had also begun receiving what people kindly called "bullying"—being demeaned, looked down upon, and dismissed simply for being commoners.
Unfortunately, reporting such behavior achieved nothing. Nobles were the primary donors keeping the academy afloat, and the more money a family donated, the more untouchable their children became.
Luckily, Alex and Marc had each other. But not everyone was so fortunate. Some students couldn't withstand the constant harassment, the whispered insults, the glares, and the blatant indifference from the staff. They left the academy entirely, unable to endure the quiet cruelty of both nobles and teachers.
Now, Alex and Marc sat in the front of Scarlett's classroom, listening to her finish her lecture. It seemed they could never escape their "destiny" of sitting front row—Scarlett insisted on it, especially after realizing Alex's potential.
As she concluded her lesson, she turned toward the class and said, "Kids, next month marks the trimestral test. It consists of two parts: a field trip lasting one day, and a written exam held the day after your return.
"This test will place every student on a global ranking. I don't need to say how valuable a good rank is for your future, right?"
Her words sparked an instant stir across the room.
A boy raised his hand.
"Yes, Marek?"
"Will there be an update to the class rankings after the test? Like—can we ascend to Class A or S if we score high enough?"
It was a good question, one that made the entire class pause—Alex and Marc included.
Scarlett hesitated before answering. "Unfortunately, no. The classes will remain as they are."
She said it softly, almost regretfully, as if afraid her answer would drain the students' motivation.
"Heh." Alex sneered under his breath.
'Of course it will be that way.'
Scarlett caught his sneer, her eyes flickering with guilt. She knew what the commoners were enduring. Seeing Alex's growing resentment—and that of so many others—pained her deeply.
The world, after all, was merciless to those born without a surname.
As the class ended and students began packing their things, Scarlett called out, "Alex, wait a bit after class. I want to talk to you."
Alex didn't reply—he simply nodded.
Once everyone else had left, the classroom grew silent. Scarlett sat on the professor's chair, her posture calm but her eyes serious.
"Alex," she began gently, "I know you've had a rough time here. But don't let that unfairness break you. You're one of the brightest students I've ever taught. If you keep pushing, you'll rank high on the upcoming test—maybe even reach the top next year."
Her tone was soft, almost pleading. She didn't want to see another gifted student leave because of the academy's corruption.
"Perhaps I'll persevere this year," Alex said coldly, "but you can be damn sure you won't see a hair of me next year."
"Please, reconsider," Scarlett urged, standing abruptly, her hands pressing against the desk. "I know it's hard, but you have to endure. There's a future waiting for you if you just—"
"You know nothing." Alex's voice cut through her words like a blade. "Aren't you a noble yourself? You and Fabian might be the only exceptions to this constant pile of shit we face every day—but that doesn't give you the right to say you understand. And it sure as hell doesn't give you the right to tell us to suffer through years of humiliation and harassment."
His tone sharpened, his calm mask cracking as raw frustration spilled out.
"Since you already know how unfair this place is, doesn't it bother you how we're treated? Or is this just an act—something done out of greed, to keep me here because having a talented student under your name would make you look better on the board?"
Scarlett froze, speechless.
Alex's words hung heavy in the air.
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned and walked out, his footsteps echoing through the empty room, leaving Scarlett behind—still seated, eyes distant.
She knew he was right. The academy was anything but fair.
But what struck her wasn't his anger—it was how much he'd changed.
The bright, respectful, and eager boy she'd once seen had turned into someone cold, bitter, and resentful. Someone who no longer believed in the system—or in those who served it.
His final words echoed in her mind. 'Is he right?'
In part, yes. A high-ranked student under her name would indeed elevate her standing within the academy. But her wish for him to stay wasn't only about prestige. It came from genuine care—and from the belief that the only way to change this rotten hierarchy was the same way it was built.
Through strength.
Still, she couldn't deny the truth—she didn't fully understand what the commoners endured. She was a noble herself, albeit from a low-ranking family. Even so, she'd never faced such treatment during her own time at the academy.
That afternoon, after finishing all his classes, Alex sat alone in his dorm—the one place he still considered his refuge. The noise of the academy was muffled behind thick walls, leaving only the faint hum of mana and the scratch of a quill.
This small room had become his sanctuary.
He was working on modifying his Windslicer spell, and he was close to finishing it.
He called the new version Windslicer Barrage.
The concept was simple: instead of a single concentrated slash, the spell fired multiple weaker wind blades in rapid succession—like a torrent of slicing air. It lacked the power of the original but made up for it in sheer volume.
A classic trade-off—quantity over quality.
As he reviewed the runic formula, the air shimmered faintly. 4 thin wind blades shot across the room, slicing shallow lines through a practice dummy before.
He exhaled, satisfied.
"Finally…" he muttered.
But his mind was already moving to the next step. He wanted to develop an offensive water spell—something to complement his arsenal.
That, however, would have to wait until after the trimestral test.
For now, there was only one thing to do.
Train.
Train as if his life depended on it—because in a world like this, maybe it truly did.