"Good morning," a girl greeted her friends. Her messy brown hair and bright orange eyes made me think of autumn leaves.
"Hey," one of them replied, his voice thick with sleep. His own black hair was equally disheveled, and his round glasses lent him a distinctly nerdy air. "Ready for classes?"
"Absolutely!" Her energy was almost blinding. It was honestly refreshing to see someone so genuinely enthusiastic. "What about you two?"
"No." The last member of the trio spoke with the weariness of a man twice his age. "Let's just get this disaster of a life over with."
A young man with copper-red hair, a disgusted scowl, and pitch-black eyes turned and started walking without another word.
"Wait for us!" the girl called after him, amusement clear in her voice as she hurried to catch up.
"Don't leave me behind!" the black-haired boy shouted, scrambling after them.
It was a strangely charming scene.
In this distant world, even the most mundane things carried echoes of my previous life.
"I want oatmeal and bread."
"Ugh, what an exhausting morning."
"Mom and Dad are going to be so proud!"
The hallway buzzed with overlapping voices, each one thick with emotion. Hope. Dread. Excitement. Resignation.
Fascinating.
In my past life, when I studied law, I used to watch other students and convince myself their lives were easier than mine. That coping mechanism didn't work here.
Everyone here—regardless of status or origin—had their own story. Their own scars. Even if I compared misfortunes, both my original life and Jakob's were far kinder than many of the ones surrounding me now.
And I didn't even want to dwell on the lives of certain key characters.
"Good morning, Eozän Academy!" A cheerful voice rang through the hallway speakers. "We're starting this exciting day with yours truly—Lyfua Merryweather!"
"Lyfua!" a group of students chanted in unison as they passed.
"I'm joining the debate club," someone declared.
"This year's curriculum looks brutal..." another groaned.
"I heard some sections of the castle have hidden secrets..." an excited voice added.
Groups had already begun to form. Safety in numbers. Familiarity in chaos.
I leaned against the wall, eating a ham, tomato, and cheese sandwich, quietly observing them.
People gave me a wide berth. I wasn't surprised.
Who was I kidding? I knew exactly why.
I was a chimera to them—the original Jakob's terrible reputation still clung to me like a bad smell. Apparently, he'd been an absolute gem of a person. Sarcasm fully intended.
His appearance didn't help either. What might be considered a ten among beautiful vampiresses didn't exactly translate to universal appeal.
"I wish I'd gotten a less conspicuous face," I muttered. Most isekai protagonists at least got the legendary "wet cardboard" design. I didn't even get the starter pack.
No system. No overwhelming power. No harem orbiting around me like satellites.
This was a scam. I wanted a complaint box.
The students continued streaming past, brimming with anticipation for their first day. Full of hope. Surrounded by friends.
I didn't have that luxury. My own circle was far away.
"Hey." A girl pointed directly at me, completely ignoring noble etiquette. "It's the pianist."
"No," the boy beside her corrected, shaking his head. "It's the White Ghost."
I beg your finest pardon?
"The White Ghost?" His friend's eyes lit up with fascination. "Ooh, because of his hair and skin?"
"No." The boy's serious tone made me freeze mid-bite. "It's because of his encounter with the knight. Swift as the breeze, imposing in form—like silver, or a phantom in white."
I nearly choked.
"Right," the girl nodded cheerfully. "The White Ghost."
I recovered too late to confront them. Instead, I stood there in the middle of the hallway, internally screaming.
The title made me cringe so hard I could feel it in my soul, but I forced myself to let it go.
For now, this kind of reputation might actually be useful.
"Bear with it, Jakob..." I whispered to myself.
"Don't forget to maintain good relationships with your close bonds..." Lyfua said—a repetitive phrase that played every time you walked through the hallways in the game. "Let us give thanks every day for the life the King of Souls has given us."
I still felt uncomfortable with these people's sincere faith in an absent God...
"It's not like I can do anything about it..." I muttered with some frustration.
I let out a yawn. It was still very early in the morning. Honestly, I wasn't ready for the terrible headache that was school.
Especially not alone.
Fortunately—and unfortunately—classes were divided by steep levels of competence and status.
Originally, the player ended up in whichever class they chose. I didn't have that luxury.
"Silver Hall, Section B," I said between bites. I swallowed and used a handkerchief to wipe my hands. "Effectively, I'm far from my friends."
Primrose, Conlaoch, and Armine had been so exceptional in their combat performances that they were placed directly into Gold Hall, Section A—surely alongside Aeono and several other important characters.
I didn't envy them. While being at that level had its advantages, such as the opportunity to forge bonds with key figures for the future, it wasn't something I wanted at the moment.
Honestly, I was better off in a normal class...
I fervently wished for tranquility as close as possible to the one I'd had in my previous life.
I ran a hand through my hair—a gesture I'd carried from before I was Jakob, usually to calm my nerves before an exam.
"Let's go," I told myself.
I walked for about twenty minutes before finding an ornate Yseal door. The metal bore reliefs of stags and dragons together—more like allies than lovers.
Good symbolism...
I noticed the silver plaque beside the doors, with the section in black letters.
B.
I took a breath and grabbed the door handle. My nerves made me feel foolish...
"Come on," I told myself. "You're not a child on his first day of school..."
Wait...
I let the air go and opened the door to Silver Hall, Section B.
The first thing I noticed was the girl standing on top of a seat.
Crimson hair pulled up in a high, messy ponytail.
Orange eyes and an expression of intense academic concentration that, somehow, made her look even more dangerously attractive than she already was.
She didn't seem to notice.
Not in the slightest.
Her modified uniform—shorter skirt and tighter blouse—drew everyone's attention.
She remained oblivious to all of it, gesticulating with both hands as she explained to the air.
"... Which is why standard flame-compression matrices are inefficient at this scale," she was explaining to no one in particular. "If you apply greater control over your compression of the concept of fire and stabilize the thermal feedback loop with transmutation, you can achieve a 340% increase in output without destabilizing the core..."
A small, perfectly controlled ball of concentrated fire spun above her palm like a tiny sun.
It was beautiful. Precise. Clearly the work of someone who understood magic at a terrifying level.
Then she sneezed.
The fireball wobbled, shot upward, and exploded against the ceiling in a shower of sparks.
The girl blinked.
"...That wasn't supposed to happen." She said it with the gravity of a scholar who had just discovered a new theorem, completely oblivious to the fact that half the class was staring directly at her chest.
I closed the door with myself still outside...
"What the hell?" I asked myself, unsure of what I'd just seen.
Okay. This was supposed to be a class below the protagonist's level, but I had just witnessed main-character energy radiating from that girl.
She wasn't a heroine, which meant her madness was... entirely natural...
"Oh no." The horror of the implication hit me like a train.
"Hey!" The door swung open and the redhead grabbed my hand, pulling me into the classroom. "Plumshire Woodloock. A pleasure."
I looked at her face while she shook my hand in a greeting I still wasn't processing.
Freckles dotted her face, with a gleam in her eyes that warned me of something very certain...
Trouble.
I looked toward the rest of the classroom and...
I understood instantly that I had just walked into an ecosystem of beautiful, contained disasters.
The classroom was circular, with tiered seating descending toward a central lectern.
There was a world map made of silver on the left wall and a large blackboard on the right.
Sunlight poured through tall, narrow windows, cutting through the air like golden swords. The atmosphere smelled faintly of ozone, old parchment, and someone who had definitely set something on fire recently.
And yet...
I felt strangely relaxed.
No political vipers. No suffocating expectations. Just a classroom full of students who probably didn't care about my lineage.
This was fine.
I smiled and looked the girl in the eyes.
"Jakob Liedschlag." I felt strangely at ease. "A pleasure."
"Ooh, great!" She hardly seemed to be paying attention to me. "Let me introduce you to the rest."
She dragged me off, still gripping my hand.
"This is Oswyn Goudwick," she said, pointing to a tall boy.
No.
Enormous was more accurate. He easily stood 1.90 meters of pure muscle.
His shoulders looked capable of carrying a horse.
"Hello," he said, extending a hand awkwardly. "Nice to meet you."
He had light brown hair, warm brown eyes, and fair skin.
"Likewise." I used my free hand to shake his. "Jakob."
The grip told me his hands were calloused and hardened from labor.
"Woodloock," Oswyn sighed, releasing my hand to look at the redhead. "Don't be so abrasive with our classmates. It's barely the first day, and you've already made it rain fire."
Plumshire laughed as though nearly setting the room ablaze was nothing serious.
"It was a harmless demonstration!" She tilted her head, entirely oblivious. "We're going to be classmates for years—it's better to show off our talents early!"
Oswyn shot me a commiserating look. He seemed like a thoroughly reasonable person; considering how little he probably knew Plumshire, he was likely just as disoriented as I was.
That's when I noticed it. Ah... it was like Rodrigo and me. He was one of the normal ones in a world of lunatics.
"Anyway!" Plumshire chirped. "Onward!"
She whisked me toward another desk. There sat a slim boy in silver glasses, scribbling at an inhuman speed across three notebooks simultaneously.
"Cedric Valehart," Plumshire whispered loudly. "He's super serious. Didn't even flinch at my fire."
"A pleasure," I offered, mostly out of courtesy.
"Likewise." His dry tone caught me off guard. He didn't look up from his notebooks once. "I hope we can get along."
"Of course," I replied, honestly impressed by the absolute lack of interest in his voice.
"Next!" With a swift pivot, she dragged me a row back. "Florence Neri."
She was a tall girl with long, disheveled lavender hair and large purple eyes ringed with dark circles. She glanced at me like a startled deer before hiding behind her book.
The title was in a language that, thank God, Jakob knew.
Introversione Avanzata: Il Ritiro Tattico Sociale – Volume 4
… What?
"And—!" Plumshire drew in a deep breath, clearly preparing to shout.
BAAAAMMM!
The classroom door burst open with enough force to rattle the windows.
Everyone turned toward the commotion.
A woman entered as if she owned the place.
"Well, well, well." Wild purple hair cascaded past her waist. "What do we have here?"
A black leather eyepatch covered her left eye, embossed with a silver snarling hound.
Her right eye was a deep, piercing blue that had clearly seen too many battlefields and far too little sleep.
She descended the tiered steps with effortless confidence and a haughty smirk.
Her physique strained the laws of physics just enough to demand immediate attention.
My brain struggled to process the sight—partly out of basic appreciation, and partly out of sheer disbelief that this passed for academic attire.
Her enormous breasts (and when I say enormous, I mean enormous in the absurd sense of the word) were barely covered by the upper half of a bikini made of silver plates.
Her hands were sheathed in black leather gloves.
Her lower half, mercifully, wore a long scarlet skirt with slits at the sides for better mobility, and her feet were protected by knee high black boots.
That outfit in an academy of this importance should have been illegal under several international treaties.
A massive double-bladed battle-axe rested casually on her shoulder as though it weighed nothing.
The blade was in perfect condition, so sharp it reflected the sunlight almost like a mirror.
The shaft of black wood gleamed and was as tall as she was, looking ideal for combat at greater range.
She wasn't a character from the game either—not one I remembered, at least—nor did she seem like an orthodox professor...
She looked like a retired mercenary who had gotten bored and decided teaching was a close enough substitute for war.
Everyone in the room fell into absolute silence.
The woman surveyed the classroom with a single glance.
Then she spoke:
"Listen up, brats."
Her voice was hoarse, smoky, and heavy with the weight of someone who had shouted orders for years.
"I'm Professor Niali Cogadhálainn. Former captain of the Nathraichean Iarainn." She struck the butt of the axe against the floor. The impact boomed like a gunshot. "Twenty-three campaigns and twelve confirmed death matches. I retired because the teacher's salary is better and students complain less than my soldiers."
She smiled devilishly. Something deep inside my brain short-circuited.
"I don't care about your lineages. I don't care about your titles. I care about results. If you're lazy, I'll work you until you cry. If you're stupid, I'll make you smart. If you're weak..." Her grin widened, and my cheeks flared hot. "...I'll make you dangerous."
"Excuse me," Oswyn spoke with some hesitation in his voice, "but not everyone's here yet."
Our professor's face shifted to a flat expression.
"Alright, we'll wait. In the meantime—" She seemed to think for a moment, then pointed her axe at a particular seat. "You there! Did you think I wouldn't notice you? Come down and show your faces!"
I hadn't noticed anyone up there. I watched as several girls descended with unhurried steps.
"Damn..." I recognized two of them.
The first my brain managed to register was...
Long black hair reaching her waist, a serious face, skin pale as a sheet of paper, narrow eyes with black irises.
She wore her uniform impeccably, and her face looked too much like a porcelain doll's.
One of the heroines of [Kings Roads].
Yoko Kojirou.
[The False Blade]
The second was...
Katya Karamazov.
[The Ally of the Unfortunate]
"Tch." Impressive—Katya's expression of bitterness upon seeing me was simply wonderful.
The third was a girl with short brown hair, copper-colored eyes, and sun-kissed skin. Her uniform was fighting a losing battle against her body.
"Good morning." Her voice sounded friendly.
"Alright." Niali leaned her axe against the wall and crossed her arms beneath her chest. "Now take your seats and we'll wait."
This was a good time to prioritize my mental tranquility.
I opted for a seat far enough away not to draw attention and close enough not to seem deliberately evasive.
I interlaced my fingers and rested my chin on my hands.
"Ah." Friedrich's voice sounded in my head. I grunted softly, knowing a clever remark was incoming. "The pose of a manipulator with emotional-connection issues... very fitting."
I closed my eyes, counted to ten, and decided to take advantage of the fact that Friedrich was, as far as I knew, a being with his own thoughts and identity.
"...What do you think of this development?" I spoke quietly, looking through the windows. Birds flew, and the sun looked genuinely imposing on the horizon.
"Contrary to what you might believe, I'm not an omnipresent or omnipotent being. My information is as limited as yours—possibly more so. Even our bond is severely diluted by the protection on your soul." His voice sounded curiously frustrated. "But to answer your question, I think this development is perfect for you."
Interesting... Friedrich rarely offered a favorable opinion of my actions.
"Why?"
"Because the world is not an inert stage governed by the whims of a single person," The irony in that comment left me speechless for a few seconds. "So you should take this moment to reflect on your place in this world. Your soul gazes at the horizon while you lose sight of the ground beneath your feet."
...I reclined in the seat. In that moment, I studied the blue of the sky with care.
Before that immensity, I felt the weight on my shoulders lift, if only for a moment.
When was the last time I had truly breathed since arriving here?
"You haven't," Friedrich noted dryly. "You've been reacting out of pure survival. That wall you believed impregnable—Aeono—wasn't even in your path. Even now, your sole focus is saving your friend from a tyrannical deity."
I rested my face in my left hand.
"In this world..." I was truly adrift now. Jakob's destiny had shattered the moment I took over his life. Free of that chain, I was left with the question: "Who am I?"
What should I do? Whom should I support? Should I keep trying to maintain a low profile?
"Right!" Niali's shout made me realize the classroom was already full. "With everyone here, I can begin the introduction."
Wait... I looked around. Every seat was occupied, and everyone seemed ready to hear the professor's words.
Had I been so lost in thought that I hadn't noticed the rest of the students arriving?
"As you all know," Niali began, pacing slowly, "we live in an era of peace. But before this—who can tell me which wars paved the way for the stability we currently enjoy?"
Her voice turned serious. She gestured toward the world map.
Oswyn raised his right hand.
"The War against the Corrupted Deities," he offered hesitantly.
"Exactly!" Niali barked, a fierce passion lighting up her tone. "But that wasn't the only one. Go further back. Tell me about the conflicts that left this continent so broken that cults spread like a plague, driving the King of Souls himself to decide we no longer deserved divine intervention."
"...Drangnach Osten," Katya said softly. Her eyes were fixed squarely on me, burning with an intensity that made my skin crawl.
"Very good!" The professor's attention fixed on me. "Erdeder Gnade's aggressive expansion into Vintergard territory spiraled into a massive conflict, creating a perfect breeding ground for further atrocities."
In my mind came the image of Jakob's grandfather—a cold man, hardened by war. He had fought in that conflict and those surrounding it.
"Don't be so cynical." Cedric spoke. For the first time, he lifted his gaze from his notebooks to look directly at Katya. "You Vintergardians didn't miss the chance to attack Gwydon when you saw the opportunity."
Katya stood abruptly from her seat and pointed at me with barely contained hatred.
"These pretentious monsters were to blame for that! They burned our villages and our food reserves!" The venom seeping through her voice made it clear that her animosity toward me was not a trivial thing. "Nobles—they're the enemy of everyone."
"The war with Erdeder Gnade doesn't justify your treacherous attack on Gwydon, a nation that declared its neutrality. But you burned our fleet out of fear of ending up like when you fought Ōyashima." Cedric seemed unaffected by Katya's outburst. His remark about Yoko's country drew her attention to the matter. "I'll remind you that you also decided to try to sack Ausonia, far too confident in your numbers."
"Ausonia has always been a nation of cowards!" Katya snarled. "Hiding behind economic influence because you lack the stomach for real sacrifice!"
"That same Vintergardian arrogance is what led you to provoke Ōyashima," Yoko interjected. Her calm, aristocratic contempt drew the entire room's attention. "You were bleeding on two fronts, yet you eagerly begged for a third."
"Not only that." A blond girl rose from her seat. "Glorienne allied with Gwydon to fight both Erdeder Gnade and Vintergard. Both nations were aiming for absolute empire."
"Ausonia and Erdeder Gnade maintained their pact solely to choke out the aggression on multiple fronts," Yoko added smoothly. "Truly, it is an impressive feat for Vintergard to be so universally despised."
"Shut your mouth, you rice-eating whore!"
Yoko rose gracefully from her seat, her dark eyes gleaming with unmistakable, lethal anticipation.
"ENOUGH!" Niali slammed the butt of her axe against the floor again. The gunshot-like crack made all of us snap our attention to her. "Well done, brats... You've just demonstrated why everything went to hell so quickly."
"Professor..." a student tried to speak, but Niali's intense stare stopped him.
"You thoughtless fools fell for the oldest, most pathetic trap in existence: turning on each other." She pointed her blade toward the southern expanse of Solomonara. "When the Corrupted Deities invaded, the only forces left standing to face them were the Sun Drinkers, the Giants, and the mercenary companies."
Then her axe swung back toward us.
"No one could have foreseen how fast those things advanced." The professor's gaze drifted into nothing. "Everyone... ignored the signs..."
In my previous life, I'd seen that expression before. It was the face of someone whose wounds were of the soul and mind more than of the body.
"Professor."
She blinked, returning to the present.
"Speak, Liedschlag."
I sighed internally.
"The War against the Corrupted Gods only helped us understand the problem with ourselves." I recalled this line of dialogue from Sir Cadfarchog of the Scarlet Edge. "The only way to stop us from tearing each other apart is an enemy terrifying enough to force us together."
And even then...
"Ha!" Niali barked a genuine laugh. "Looks like there's a brain behind that pretty face. Exactly!"
"It's said that the presence of the corrupted gods wasn't something that appeared abruptly," Florence said suddenly, her tone solemn. "It was something people deliberately ignored. Preachers of new gods, signs in the skies, the earth, and in dreams."
She was right. Even now, somewhere out there, self-proclaimed gods were whispering promises and rewards.
Three bosses came to mind as I recalled that…
"Precisely," Niali said, sitting casually on the steps. "Those parasites exploited the vulnerable. Isolated villages, the desperate, the mentally fractured—anyone looking for salvation."
"And not just the desperate," Cedric added coldly. "Scholars, wealthy merchants, and corrupt nobles quickly realized there was profit to be made in serving the occult."
"Exactly!" Niali grinned savagely. "The entire continent underestimated how deep the rot went."
"Excuse me, Professor," a boy raised his hand from the middle rows. "But what does any of that have to do with us?"
I stared at him. I had to bite my tongue to keep from calling him an idiot.
Unfortunately, the original Jakob probably would have asked the exact same thing.
"Ah. And there it is. The second most dangerous mentality," Niali said, aiming her heavy leather glove at the boy. "Believing you stand apart from history is the hallmark of a fool."
The boy shrank in his place, shame on his face.
"Professor," I interjected, mostly to spare the kid from further humiliation. "Are you saying we're naive?"
I already knew the answer. Niali's smile turned predatory, a chilling reminder of her mercenary roots.
"Good to see your tainted blood doesn't impair your reasoning." Then she spread her arms wide and raised her voice. "Brats! Learn something: you are not important!"
Her grin stretched from ear to ear. She seemed thoroughly entertained by the expressions on several students' faces.
"Professor." Yoko's delicate, calm, and almost condescending voice carried across the classroom. "Aren't you underestimating us too much? We aren't our predecessors."
Niali's expression softened into something almost maternal.
"Every generation believes they are wiser than the last, Yoko Kojirou." The slight movement of eyebrows on Yoko's face revealed that Niali had caught her off guard. "During the War of the Corrupted Gods, everyone was supremely confident in the strength they possessed."
Niali's expression went blank, her eyes locked on Yoko's. I felt genuine discomfort watching this woman's face seem to abandon its humanity for a few moments.
"Everyone dies," the professor said in a hollow voice. Then her face relaxed. "I don't want to see any more youth ruined by the evil that lurks in this world—or beyond it."
There was a deep melancholy in her voice. Her eyes seemed to lose themselves in some imaginary distance.
"Professor..." The same student who had asked the stupid question spoke up.
"Believe it or not, I didn't take this job to watch another generation get chewed up and spit out by the horrors of this world." Melancholy hung heavy in her smoky voice. "War isn't ancient history. Don't let your titles blind you. Don't become pawns for greedy nobles, false gods, or your own hubris."
The way she said it reminded me of one of the few pieces of advice my father had given me in my previous life.
"Everyone wants to take advantage of others all the time." The smile on his lips had made me feel a mixture of disgust and hatred. "As my son, make sure you extract the greatest possible advantage from people. But remember: I don't want to see you being trampled."
Great. Now I needed something sweet to calm the displeasure I felt.
"Alright!" Niali shouted, dispersing the atmosphere of unease. "Enough seriousness. You can have the rest of the day off."
Personally, I didn't buy the smile she gave all her students.
"Wait, already?" The same boy who'd asked the question stood up in surprise.
Niali, relaxed, began walking toward the door.
"I really didn't have anything else planned for this first session, and right now I could go for a good beer." She stopped just as she gripped the door handle and turned her head back. We all saw the ear-to-ear grin she wore. "You can thank the King of Souls. If I hadn't suddenly felt like drinking, you'd be out on the training field."
A shiver ran through me. While training with those monsters—Armine, Primrose, and Conlaoch—had put me a step above many, the pinnacle of power in this world was still very far from my reach.
"Anyway." The professor opened the door and stepped outside the classroom. "Make friends or something. Tomorrow's lesson will be practical."
"Professor..." a girl began timidly. "Your axe."
Without turning around, the professor extended her hand toward where the axe should have been.
We all watched as the weapon shot toward her, defying gravity with enough flair that the handle was caught by the mercenary's gloved hand.
With a fluid motion, she rested the shaft against her shoulder without looking back at us and walked out with unhurried steps.
We all remained in silence. I had to admit it. That was...
"Cool." Plumshire broke the spell over the classroom with her voice, then stood on her seat and thrust a fist skyward with gusto. "We've got the coolest professor in the entire Academy."
"Get down, Woodloock." Oswyn dragged out the words, looking deflated from the lesson. "Try not to bother everyone else."
"Meh." Sticking out her tongue, Plumshire leapt down and positioned herself very close to Oswyn. "Don't feel bad. You'll get to shine in the next class."
Oswyn's expression turned slightly irritated.
"I'm leaving." Cedric Valehart closed three notebooks with surgical precision and yet was still writing in the fourth, as though his hand were faster than his thoughts. "If you'll excuse me."
He walked out with agile steps, moving far more nimbly than I'd imagined. Once again, my expectations betrayed me.
I needed information. I couldn't rely solely on my knowledge of the game.
I stayed seated, observing my classmates.
Something in me felt... strange.
In my previous life, I'd enjoyed looking at paintings. I used to stand for hours examining every possible detail.
I searched in art for something that would help me understand people better...
In the end, all that remained was... an uncomfortable feeling of staring at a painting that was too alive.
Something similar was happening now.
People began filing out of the classroom.
"I'm telling you, it's a mistake," one of my classmates said in an exasperated voice. "I can't be in this class—look at the freak show of a professor."
"I don't know." Another student replied, his gait more relaxed, his expression drowsy. "She seems pretty likable to me. She even gave us the day off."
Nearby, Florence Neri attempted a stealthy exit, creeping along the wall until her foot caught the edge of a step.
She went down hard, face-planting onto the stone. Scrambling up, she bolted through the door, letting out a muffled, thoroughly comical squeak of humiliation.
"Kuu..." I heard her sob in a comical way.
"And that's why it's good to eat pasta with hot sauce!" Plumshire Woodloock shouted at the top of her lungs. "...What were we talking about?"
She stood staring at the ceiling where her fireball had exploded, as if mentally calculating the exact angle needed to keep the next sneeze from turning the classroom into a bonfire.
"Don't even think about it." The exhaustion in Oswyn's voice reminded me of a university classmate with chronic stress.
I noticed how Yoko Kojirou left without a sound—straight-backed, impeccable, as if even the air parted to avoid touching her.
My gaze followed Katya's expression and movements when she entered my line of sight.
Anger, hatred, and a thirst for revenge burned brightly in her eyes. This was undoubtedly one of the reasons she wasn't very popular...
She noticed me watching. Her brow furrowed, and she clicked her tongue—of course she did—before leaving the classroom.
"Liedschlag!"
I flinched. The voice hurtled toward me with a joy that seemed physically dangerous.
Plumshire planted herself in front of me and greeted me with an exaggerated wave, as though we'd been friends since childhood.
Behind her, Oswyn approached with a calm resignation.
"We're going to get lunch." Oswyn's silent plea for help was glaringly obvious to me. "Coming?"
Plumshire nodded with far too much force.
"Yes! It's important. First week, first lunch, first social impression. Group synergy." Pause. "And food."
For one second—one entire second—I wanted to say yes.
I genuinely wanted to help Oswyn. He was clearly too normal to deal with Plumshire's brand of lunacy...
Besides, if I managed to run into Conlaoch and Primrose...
In my brain, the possibility of Plumshire and Primrose meeting...
"Please, no." Friedrich's voice pleaded in my mind. It seemed his antagonism toward Primrose and the possibility of her befriending someone like Plumshire pushed him to the brink. "Anything but that."
I smiled. His suffering filled me with joy.
I closed my eyes.
My left hand clenched on its own, as if trying to feel the weight of something that shouldn't exist.
I opened my eyes again and looked at Oswyn.
The patience on his face was real.
Plumshire's electric curiosity was real. But...
I had to turn them down.
That was the saddest part.
"Thanks," I said in a friendly tone that I tried to make sound natural and not... functional. "But I have to do something first."
Plumshire blinked.
"What thing?"
"The library," I replied, as politely as possible.
Oswyn nodded slowly. Understanding showed in his eyes.
"Got it," he said. He didn't insist. The good thing about reasonable people. "See you later."
He turned around.
Plumshire opened her mouth, restrained herself with a visible effort, and then declared:
"Fine." She turned around as well.
I watched them walk away.
….
…
..
.
"It's been a while."
The door to the Eozän library.
Yseal. The metal of the King of Souls.
Reliefs: an angel with a lance, a knight with a sword, and the eternal tension of two wills colliding.
Epic...
I entered.
The smell of old books, shelves that seemed infinite, and several others floating beneath the vaulted ceiling.
Sunlight filtered through the enormous windows. I walked, noting the absence of other students.
Knowledge.
Having abandoned the doomed narrative path laid out for Jakob, I needed solid ground beneath my feet. Game mechanics were a helpful baseline, but they weren't enough to survive reality.
Glancing toward the front desk, I spotted the polished brass service bell.
"Nope." I had zero desire to cross paths with Zofia right now. She might run this archive, but I wasn't mentally prepared for another encounter with whatever eldritch entity wore her face. "Time to work."
I said this while looking at a study table of black wood. Large enough for at least seven people.
I searched for books the way someone searches for a safe spot inside a burning building.
Atlases.
Cartography.
History.
Maritime routes.
Port catalogs.
War records.
Maps of border regions.
When I had a decent pile—a small bastion of paper—I realized something depressing.
"Jakob, you arrogant imbecile," I whispered, rubbing my temples.
Inheriting this body was a logistical nightmare. The original Jakob's pampered vanity meant he had never bothered to learn a damn thing about the world outside his estate.
"A historian, a journalist, even a simple commoner would have been better..." I sighed.
It wasn't worth dwelling on...
Time to work.
I picked up the heavy tome whose title read...
"Huh?" And that's when the strangeness hit me.
The only book I'd read in this world had been the [Tome of the Fortitude], and its letters had struck me as curious, though I hadn't given it much thought at the time.
This applied to the school's signs as well.
Galwynnic—the official language of this country and the tongue typically used to facilitate relations at this Academy...
Jakob knew how to speak it because his parents had forced him to learn, but in truth, his knowledge of languages was very poor.
"Feelings aren't arguments..." I spoke in Jakob's mother tongue. Graedensprach. I could notice the differences between the languages thanks to this body's memories. "But..."
I looked again at the book's cover.
It was a tome from Zhongguo. I ran my index finger across the title. The characters of the language were something I'd never seen before...
Its language was Tiânhuà—one of many languages the original Jakob hadn't known.
I flipped it open. The characters were entirely alien. Complete gibberish.
Then, a sharp needle of pain pierced the base of my skull. I winced, gripping my head.
When I opened my eyes, the ink shifted. The concepts settled into my mind with terrifying clarity.
Pure horror hit me like a physical blow.
Not a single character resembled anything I recognized from my previous life. Not the slightest connection.
What language had I been speaking this entire time?
"Jakob Liedschlag," I said aloud.
My brain mapped the syllables to sound roughly German, but the actual phonetics leaving my lips were entirely different.
A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck.
I read a line.
And my mind accepted it.
It wasn't natural. An invasive, automated translation protocol was actively running in my subconscious.
I moved quickly.
I opened another book, from Ōyashima.
Its language was Shimakotoba.
Different system, different structure.
Equally alien.
Equally... comprehensible.
A terrible pain tore through my skull.
I read the book again. Now the content was understandable...
I grabbed a book of different origin.
Khamsin. Its language: Sirocali Dersa.
The same. First the pain, then the ability to understand.
I picked up a book from Arshaka-Nûr. Its tongue: Nûrvani.
Then Vintergard. Frostrímål.
All of them.
I could understand them.
But...
I leaned back in my chair, feeling something cold crawl up my spine.
Was this... normal for an isekai?
Damn... it felt as though someone were tampering with everything that made me me...
As if something—or someone—had decided to rewrite whatever was necessary to make me function within this world.
I swallowed.
"Maps first," I told myself. "Existential crisis later."
I spread an atlas across the table.
And the continent stared back at me like a sleeping beast.
It was enormous. Immeasurable.
The kind of expanse that made the concept of "escape" laughable unless you had real control over routes, climate, logistics, and politics.
It had vague echoes of Europe—a peninsula reminiscent of Iberia if someone had stretched it with violence, coastlines hinting at the Mediterranean in a warped version—but only vaguely.
As if someone had dreamed of my world's map and drawn it upon waking.
As if they were alternate designs of each other...
A shiver ran through my body.
No. Don't think about that...
Distracting my mind, I recalled the hours I'd spent in-game exploring the fictional world. "Maybe if everything goes well, I can take a trip around this world."
I smiled. What a pleasant thought... But this map revealed the bitterest truth: the war had room to last a very long time.
I pressed my fingers to my temple.
"...I'm hungry."
I could worry about what was coming later. My immediate concern was food.
….
…
..
.
One thing the game had justified well was the existence of cafés and bakeries inside the Castle without the church or historians wanting to murder anyone over it.
The King of Souls loved honest work and personal effort.
Something about well-used talents and an explicit rule that everyone must work for their food.
This meant various businesses were allowed to operate within the Academy.
In-game, they were used to buy sweets that advanced each heroine's route and raised her affection level.
Since this wasn't a video game, the affection I needed to raise was my own.
"Alright." I looked at one of the locations you could visit in the game: a polished white wooden door with a plaque above it.
Caffè La Lupa.
I turned the handle.
My first step inside made me feel more relaxed.
I took a breath, closed my eyes, and felt the hunger growing within me. Opening them, I began to walk while taking in the details.
It was like stepping into a rustic tavern. The lighting was dim and melancholic, provided by floating amber spheres and candles dripping wax onto empty wine bottles.
"Nice ambiance." I extended my hand to one side.
The walls were old, exposed gray stone, but the proprietors had covered them with dark crimson tapestries.
The air was heavy, dense, and intoxicating—smelling of dark-roasted coffee beans, burnt sugar, baked dough, and a hint of wood smoke.
There were open tables and, for some reason, deep wooden booths with high backs.
"Welcome!" An adorable girl with black hair in pigtails, wearing a cream-colored dress and white apron, greeted me with great enthusiasm.
"A pleasure." I gave her a slight smile and inclined my head.
The counter was a massive slab of dark walnut.
"How can I help you?" The cheer in her tone might have been performative, but she was certainly putting effort.
"Something heavy to eat and a coffee, please."
The smile she gave me looked weary. I felt a little sorry for her.
"Anything in particular?"
"Surprise me."
"Understood!" Before turning away, she pointed toward the nearby tables. "Please have a seat."
I sat near the window and watched her head toward what must have been the kitchen.
I sighed.
"I should invite those two here when I get the chance." I thought of Conlaoch and Primrose. This was a fairly ordinary café; there were others frequented by the elite. "I could come with Armine, too."
I rested my face against my palm and looked at the sky. The sun was beginning to descend.
Honestly, I was a bit lost right now.
Should I go to the metallurgy club? The music club?
Maybe I was putting too much weight on all this and should relax more.
"Yeah," I told myself, letting my shoulders drop. Everything would work out. Aeono would choose Armine.
The intended protagonists would slay the big bads, and I would quietly graduate and live a peaceful, mundane life.
I gave myself exactly sixty seconds to indulge in that pleasant delusion.
I closed my eyes. I was back in a quasi-university, having to deal with spoiled children, monsters, and the apocalypse.
Everything was great.
"Is this seat free?" A girl with a melodic, friendly tone spoke near me.
I sighed internally.
God, I couldn't have a single moment of peace.
I put on my best friendly smile.
"Go ahead." I heard her take the seat across from me.
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it..." I opened my eyes and found myself face-to-face with a beauty of scarlet hair worn in twin tails seated before me.
Her gorgeous orange eyes shone intensely—partly, no doubt, from the intelligence behind them, and partly from the lights they reflected.
Her oval face had a certain aristocratic charm. Her profile was dignified. Her olive skin complemented her hair, and the last thing I noticed about her were the wolf ears protruding from either side of her head.
I screamed internally.
"Is something wrong?" Her friendly but curious tone made me feel fatigued.
"Nothing important," I said with my best false smile. "A small headache, that's all."
"I see." She didn't sound entirely convinced, but she didn't seem particularly inclined to press the matter.
"Order's ready!" The waitress appeared out of nowhere and set down a large plate of carbonara and a cup of black coffee on the table.
Just in time.
"Thank you." I smiled at the girl, and she looked a fraction less exhausted for a few moments. Then she saw the redhead, and her expression froze.
"Lady Dei Lucarelli!" As if she'd seen death itself, the girl went pale. "I-it's an honor to have you here."
"A tiramisu and a caffè corretto," the noblewoman ordered, her tone flat and imperious. "Quickly."
"Right away, ma'am!" The poor girl practically teleported back to the safety of the kitchen.
I watched her flee. Lucky girl.
"If you'll excuse me." I picked up the fork. The first bite sent flavor exploding across my palate. "Delicious."
I smiled.
"Cute..." I heard her murmur under her breath. When I looked at her, she was staring out the window, pretending she hadn't spoken.
"My apologies." I set the fork down and wiped my mouth with a napkin. "That must have been terribly improper."
"Don't stop." She looked me straight in the eyes. "Don't you dare waste food in front of an Ausonian."
The seriousness with which she said that made me blink.
"Understood, my lady." I continued eating with considerably more gusto. The hunger was being sated, but...
"Fiammetta Dei Lucarelli." Her name sounded like she charged by the letter. Honestly, I expected as much. "Remember it."
I couldn't forget it.
One of the 120 heroines.
Fiammetta Dei Lucarelli.
[The Bloody She-Wolf]
"A pleasure." I took a sip of my coffee before continuing. "Jakob Liedschlag."
"I know." Her almost bored tone surprised me. "You put on quite a show at the opening ceremony."
Oh, really.
"Did I do well?" I'd played Schubert's Impromptu No. 3 in G-flat major, Op. 90. My performance had depended entirely on my memory and Jakob's talent at the piano.
Fiammetta rested her chin on her knuckles, studying me with unblinking scrutiny.
"Did someone break your heart?" Her voice held no accusation, pity, or compassion—only honest curiosity.
I felt my body go cold. I lowered my gaze and clenched my right fist.
I hadn't expected that question, honestly. So much for wanting to forget my ex for good.
"Would you think me a fool if I said yes?" I looked her in the eyes. There was no condescension there.
"No," she replied instantly. "Because the music proved you still have hope."
I nearly laughed at her remark. Instead, I gave a half-smile.
"Is that what it looks like?" I took a sip of my coffee with a slightly frivolous gesture. "You're very kind."
"Thank you." She meant it. She looked at my coffee with disdain. "Do you actually drink that of your own free will?"
"It helps me think." I couldn't help smiling wider.
"How tragic." She eyed my carbonara. "At least you have good taste in food."
I didn't respond. That seemed like the smartest move.
Fiammetta leaned forward with an intensity that reminded me of a merchant sniffing out a counterfeit coin.
"Tell me," she said. "Do you have a patron?"
I nearly choked.
"What?"
"Finances," she clarified, speaking as if to a child. "Are you liquid? Can you commission custom gear, secure private tutelage, and maintain your independence without selling your loyalty?"
I stared at her, incredulous.
"Why does that matter?"
Fiammetta smiled as if she'd just found an opportunity.
"Because I have an idea." She pointed at me. "You played at the ceremony. You made people cry. That means your art has value."
"Not everything should be sold," I replied, automatic.
Her expression darkened.
"Spoken like someone who has never starved." Catching the shift in my eyes, her tone softened just a fraction. "Or someone who starved and foolishly decided pride paid the bills."
I went cold.
She smiled again, as if she hadn't said anything grave.
"Doesn't matter." She tapped the table with a finger. "Money is armor, Liedschlag. Money is options. Money is the power to tell a highborn bastard to rot in hell without fearing the executioner."
That last remark struck me in an uncomfortably personal way.
I took a slow sip.
Fiammetta watched me as though sizing me up.
"And art," she added, "is what you do when the world is ugly and you still want to live in it. That's freedom, too."
"Where are you going with this?"
Fiammetta let out a laugh.
"I think you have talent. It would be tragic to waste it." She wiped a tear of laughter away. "You're one of the few musicians who bare their soul with such honesty."
I remained silent for several moments. Just as I opened my mouth—
"Here's your order!" The waitress set down Fiammetta's dessert and coffee.
"You may go." Her voice turned more serious, less playful.
The girl was smart and fled the table at a run.
Before I could say anything, the air in the café shifted.
It wasn't a sound. It wasn't a movement.
The hairs on my arms stood on end.
Fiammetta's crimson wolf ears pinned flat against her head.
"Get behind me, now!" she ordered with a serious expression.
I appreciated the intention—I truly did—but I knew full well it was pointless.
"That won't be necessary..." I said with weariness.
"Fascinating," said the voice behind me.
I didn't want to turn around immediately.
But that blend of indifference and amusement was unmistakable.
"Come to shatter my peace again?" I turned and smiled.
I noticed the faintest shift in her expression.
Zofia "Stargaze" Cromwell.
"I was going to congratulate you on making friends," she said, her voice amused. "But I suppose that would be unfair. Friends require honesty."
I clenched my teeth, knowing exactly what she meant.
"Come along, Foreigner." The smile that appeared on her face sent a chill through me. "It's time I taught you something new."