The line to the magical assessment orb moved agonizingly slowly. Zenkhald stood with his hands behind his back, calmly observing the proceedings.
Children stepped up to the pedestal one by one. Some made the orb glow faintly. Some managed a moderate light. Some barely made it flicker at all.
Suddenly, frantic whispers rippled through the crowd.
"She's coming... it's her! She's actually here!"
The crowd hastily parted. Stepping onto the platform was a girl around his age, perhaps ten or eleven. Her hair was a shimmering silver, as if it had absorbed the moonlight itself. Her eyes were the color of a clear winter sky. Her movements were calm and incredibly confident, carrying the absolute authority of a ruler.
The rumors were true. It was Princess Elinia Laurel, the heir to the throne. A prodigy of mana. A child of royal blood.
She placed her slender hand on the orb.
The sphere erupted. It wasn't just bright—it was blinding. A column of blue fire shot upward, and intricate golden lines of mana spiraled violently around the glass.
The crowd gasped collectively. "By the gods...!" "Only the royal bloodline can produce a radiance like that!" "She's a monster!" "Silence, fool, she's the Princess!"
The instructor, hands trembling slightly, wrote down on his parchment: Potential: S-Class.
The Princess calmly withdrew her hand and walked away, not even bothering to glance at the awestruck commoners.
And then, all eyes shifted... to Zenkhald.
"He's next." "That's Mira Helvard's little brother." "I heard she had monstrous strength when she tested..." "Which means... he must be..."
The whispers grew louder, heavy with expectation.
Zenkhald stepped forward—and suddenly felt a gaze pierce the back of his neck. It was sharp and impossibly deep, like an ice-cold needle. He turned around.
Standing near the back of the pavilion was an old man. He was incredibly frail, looking as though a strong gust of wind might turn him to dust. His hair was snow-white, and his eyes were faded and clouded. But those faded eyes were locked entirely on Zenkhald.
No, they weren't just looking at him. They were looking through him.
With his demonic sight, Zenkhald saw what the others could not: the mana flowing within the old man was aged and waning... but it was ABSOLUTELY MASSIVE. It was a power that, in its prime, could have leveled nations. It was a power that had long ago transcended the limits of ordinary humanity.
The mana of an ancient mage.
As their eyes met, the old man's faded pupils suddenly flared with a terrifying inner light.
Zenkhald shuddered inwardly. This old man... he sees me. He feels what I am.
The old man opened his mouth and muttered hoarsely, "Hmm... interesting... very... interesting..."
Zenkhald quickly looked away. Not the time.
"Next!" the examiner called out.
Zenkhald approached the pedestal. It was simple. Place his hand on the orb. Inject a single drop of mana. Make himself look perfectly average. That was all.
He looked at the orb. Then, he remembered the blinding radiance of the Princess.
I'll put in the exact same amount she did, he decided. That way, I'll seem natural. A talented noble, nothing more.
He carefully injected his power. It felt like the barest minimum.
The orb jerked violently on its pedestal. A sharp CRACK echoed through the courtyard as a fracture spider-webbed across the magical glass.
The examiner leaped out of his chair. "W-what...?"
The orb erupted with the exact same terrifying light as the Princess's: a column of blue fire shot into the sky, golden lines spiraled madly, and a physical wave of mana washed over the courtyard.
The crowd exploded. "THE EXACT SAME AS HER?!" "WAIT, IS HE ROYALTY?!" "NO!" "He's Mira Helvard's little brother!" "What is wrong with that family?! WHAT KIND OF MONSTERS ARE THEY?!"
Even Princess Elinia, who had been walking away, stopped. Just slightly, barely noticeably... she glanced back at him over her shoulder.
The instructor nearly dropped his quill. "P-potential... S-Class... Equal to the Crown Princess..."
Zenkhald stood perfectly still. ...I. Am an idiot.
He closed his eyes briefly. I should have gone weaker. Much, much weaker.
He stepped down from the platform, retreating into the crowd. Suddenly, panicked voices rang out near the back.
"Careful! Careful!" "Professor Merlin, you shouldn't be standing for so long!" "Please, allow us to carry you!"
Zenkhald turned. The old man—the one who had been drilling holes into his soul with his gaze—was being held up by two young mages, who were practically carrying him away.
The old man was muttering hoarsely. "Interesting... a very interesting boy... His mana... strange... so deeeeep... I need... to think..."
One of the young mages scolded him gently. "Hurry, we must get His Wisdom, Master Merlin, to his chambers! He's ignoring his age again!"
Zenkhald froze.
Merlin. The Merlin. He was alive. He was incredibly old. And he had seen him.
A cold wave washed over Zenkhald. ...perfect. I've just been noticed by the most dangerous old man in the entire kingdom.
He slowly backed away into the shadows. The next stage is the combat duel. I need to look weak. Now.
After the orb incident, every examiner looked at Zenkhald with the exact same expression: We caught a golden dragon. Now let's see if it's real.
The children whispered excitedly. "He's just like the Princess!" "No, he broke the orb! He's STRONGER!" "The Helvards are monsters!" "If he wins the duel against the instructor... he's definitely getting into the Elite Class!"
Zenkhald stood quietly at the edge of the arena. I need to fail. Gently. Without raising any suspicion.
But the combat examiner had a very different plan. The man was tall, wrapped in the black cloak of an instructor, with a face carved from stone. He carried a heavy training staff, and his aura was dense and aggressive. He was clearly a master of wind magic, a heavy-combat type.
As he approached, he whispered to Zenkhald, "Listen, boy... after what you did to the orb... we have to see what you're really made of."
Zenkhald sighed internally. That is exactly what I did not want.
The instructor raised his hand to the crowd. "The duel will be decided by a 'single-strike' rule!"
Zenkhald raised his wooden sword. If I strike him, he'll fly through the arena wall. If I block properly, he'll know I'm holding back. If I don't block at all... it'll look incredibly suspicious.
"Begin!"
The instructor didn't just attack. He didn't test Zenkhald's reflexes. He poured EVERY OUNCE of magical power he could safely use in a student exam into a single strike.
The air howled. Dust tore off the arena floor. The staff ignited with the blue fire of gale-force winds.
The crowd reeled back in horror. "Is he fighting a STUDENT seriously?!" "He's just a child!" "But his power... he's S-Class..."
Zenkhald understood instantly. He wants to break me psychologically. Or force the 'monster' out.
The strike was blindingly fast. For a demon, it was a light summer breeze. For a ten-year-old child, it was a natural disaster. Zenkhald could have dodged it. He could have parried it with a single finger. But instead, he did what he had to do.
He "tripped."
It was epic. It was stupid. It was executed with a perfectly tragic expression.
THUD.
Zenkhald fell flat on his face before the staff even reached him. His arms sprawled out. His legs splayed awkwardly. His wooden sword clattered uselessly across the stones.
The crowd stared in utter disbelief. "...WHAT?" "Are you serious...?" "That was the simplest overhead strike!" "How did he... just FALL OVER?!"
The instructor froze mid-swing, looking baffled. "Uh... what?"
Zenkhald lay there without moving for a moment. Then, he slowly lifted his head, rubbing his nose. "Ow... I... I didn't react in time..."
The crowd looked from the shattered magical orb to the boy groveling in the dirt. "So... he really is just normal?" "Maybe the orb made a mistake?" "Or maybe he has talent... but zero combat experience?"
Perfect, Zenkhald thought. An excellent humiliation. Phenomenal. It's working.
The instructor cleared his throat awkwardly. "Ahem... you... pass. Barely."
But then... the Princess intervened.
Elinia Laurel stood at the edge of the arena, watching Zenkhald with the narrowed eyes of a predator spotting a hidden trap.
"He is faking," she said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the murmurs perfectly.
The crowd gasped. "P-Princess?" "Are you sure?" "But he... he fell..." "He looks so weak!"
The Princess stepped forward. "The instructor's strike was telegraphed. He fell deliberately, before the wind even reached him. He is... dangerous."
Her ice-blue eyes flared with power. She raised her hand toward the examiner. "Instructor! I request one final test. I wish to test him myself."
The crowd erupted into absolute pandemonium. "The Crown Princess is going to duel an applicant?!" "THIS IS UNHEARD OF!" "But... if Her Highness demands it..."
The examiner swallowed hard. "Princess... if you insist..."
"I insist."
She walked onto the arena. Her steps were light, yet saturated with heavy, oppressive mana.
...WHAT ARE YOU DOING, PRINCESS, Zenkhald screamed internally.
Elinia offered a tiny, chilling smile. "If you are strong, prove it. If you are weak, I will prove you are a fraud."
Zenkhald scrambled to his feet, putting on his most pathetic, terrified expression. "I... I'll try my best..."
She moved like water. Like wind. Like a sharpened blade. It was an instantaneous dash straight toward him, heavily reinforced by magic.
"Aquila Strike!" she shouted.
The blow was ten times heavier than the instructor's. Faster. Cleaner. Deadlier.
Zenkhald calculated in a microsecond: If I don't block, she'll hit me too hard and I'll have to fake a severe injury. If I block properly, everyone will know I'm a monster. Therefore...
He executed a flawless three-step plan:
He raised his sword in a soft, incredibly sloppy block (which to her, looked like desperate flailing).
He let the kinetic force throw him backward like a ragdoll.
He discreetly condensed a drop of his own mana into a red mist and expelled it from his mouth, making it look like he coughed up blood.
CRASH.
He hit the ground, rolled twice, and lay completely still.
The crowd shrieked. "OH MY GODS!!" "THE PRINCESS WON!" "He IS weaker than her!" "He took a direct hit!!"
Elinia stood over him, breathing heavily. She stared down at his motionless body. Then, she leaned in and whispered, "...You blocked it. It was minimal. But you blocked it perfectly. You... are not normal."
Zenkhald let out a raspy, pathetic groan. "Mmm... that's... a-all I have..."
And he "fainted."
The examiner rushed over in a panic. "Young Helvard! Are you alive?!"
Zenkhald opened one eye weakly. "Ugh... did I... pass the test...?"
"YES! YES! You passed! Medic!!"
The crowd cheered in relief. "See! Of course!" "He's weaker than the Princess! He's just a normal noble!" "Everything makes sense now!"
Princess Elinia stood completely still, her wooden sword lowered. She knew. She knew he was faking. But why?
The written exam took place in a massive hall filled with hundreds of terrified children. Quills scratched frantically against parchment. Teachers paced the aisles like prison guards.
Zenkhald sat at his desk. The questions ranged from basic elemental theory to kingdom history, knightly ethics, and mana stabilization formulas.
I need to look... mediocre, he reminded himself. Not a genius. Not an absolute idiot. Just perfectly average.
For the easy questions, he gave intentionally simplistic answers: "Fire is hot." "History is important." "Ethics is when you act... ethically."
A passing teacher squinted at his parchment. "Hmm... strange descriptions... but somewhat philosophical..."
Perfect, Zenkhald thought. No one suspects a thing.
Then he reached the practical application section: "Devise a basic formula for an F-Rank spell."
Zenkhald pondered this. F-Rank was the absolute lowest tier of human magic. Things like 'ignite a candle' or 'cool a cup of water.'
I'll write something incredibly primitive, he decided. Something like... a basic demonic rune-formula. > Demonic magic had ranks too, and an F-Rank demonic spell was essentially the magical equivalent of a sneeze. He took his quill and translated a primitive demonic structure into human magical notation:
Ω-Rho / ManaPulse = 1 Stabilize Δ Through Vessel Θ Activate: 'Fira-Spark'
Done, he thought, putting down his quill. A simple F-Rank.
For demons, yes. For humans... he had just accidentally invented an entirely NEW architectural structure for magic.
A senior professor walking past his desk suddenly stopped dead. "What is this...?" He snatched the parchment up. "This... this is... impossible..."
He frantically waved over his colleagues. "Look at this! This isn't an F-Rank formula! This is... this is a completely new method of mana stabilization! Who wrote this?!"
Panic rippled through the teachers. The children turned around in their seats. "What's going on?" "Did someone fail?" "No... did they find a genius?!"
Zenkhald slowly raised his hand. "That... was me."
Every single mage in the room turned to stare at him. Their eyes were wide, their foreheads sweating. One professor looked like he was about to faint.
The senior professor leaned over his desk, his voice trembling. "Boy... you have just rewritten the foundational theory of mana conductivity."
WHAT?! Zenkhald screamed internally. I WAS TRYING TO BE STUPID!
Outwardly, he maintained a look of polite confusion. "I... just wrote down... what I knew."
The teachers looked like they wanted to weep with joy. The students sat in stunned silence.
Two rows over, Princess Elinia slowly looked up from her test, her icy eyes locking onto the back of his head. He... is dangerous.
After the exams finally concluded, Zenkhald stepped out into the Academy courtyard. The crowd of students was buzzing, arguing, and boasting. He stood quietly under the shade of a large oak tree, waiting to leave.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps.
No... not footsteps. It felt as though the air itself was parting to make way.
From around the corner stepped the old man. Frail, withered, but with eyes burning like ancient volcanoes.
MERLIN.
He was being supported by two mages, but he waved them off weakly. "Leave me... I must speak."
The young mages nervously stepped back. Merlin shuffled right up to Zenkhald. Strangely, no one in the bustling courtyard seemed to notice them. It was as if the old mage had completely severed them from the rest of the world.
"How," Merlin whispered.
Zenkhald remained silent.
Merlin pressed a bony, trembling finger against Zenkhald's chest. "Why."
Zenkhald averted his eyes.
"What do you want," Merlin demanded, his voice dropping to a soundless, terrifying frequency. It wasn't shaking from weakness—it was shaking from overwhelming, obsessive curiosity.
Zenkhald slowly looked up, meeting the ancient mage's eyes directly.
"You..." Zenkhald said softly. "...gave me something I would never have had otherwise."
Merlin frowned deeply, his white brows knitting together. "What...?"
"A second life."
Merlin froze. He completely stopped breathing.
And then, his eyes—old, faded, and clouded—suddenly erupted with a torrential, terrifying inferno of raw mana.
"Who... are you...?" the old man breathed.
"Thank you," Zenkhald whispered.
Merlin took a stumbling step back, his hands shaking violently. "This... boy... is no child... His mana... is deeper than the Abyss..."
The two young mages immediately rushed forward, grabbing the old man's arms. "Master Merlin! We must return to your chambers!" "You cannot do this! Your heart!" "Please, do not exert yourself!"
As they carried the old man away, Merlin kept his head turned, his burning eyes locked onto Zenkhald. "I... will find the answers... boy..."
Zenkhald offered a shallow, respectful bow. I sincerely hope not.
The exam results were scheduled to be announced the following morning. But Princess Elinia Laurel could NOT wait that long.
She stood on a stone balcony overlooking the courtyard, hidden in the shadow of a pillar. "Helvard... you are hiding something. And I am going to find out exactly what it is."
She dropped from the balcony, landing as silently as a cat. She trailed Zenkhald from a distance as he walked across the courtyard. He looked entirely unremarkable. Calm, eyes lowered, walking at a normal pace.
But then... she blinked.
And he was gone.
Elinia froze in her tracks. "...what?"
She sprinted to the exact spot where he had just been standing. There were NO footprints. NO lingering mana. NO scent. NO trace of movement. He had vanished into thin air, like a shadow burned away by the sun.
"That's... impossible..." she muttered, biting her lip in frustration. "No one can do that..."
"Princess?" a calm voice asked from right behind her.
She shrieked, spinning around so fast she nearly tripped over her own boots.
Zenkhald was standing directly behind her. Simply. Calmly. As if he had been standing there the entire time.
"Are you... looking for something?" he asked politely.
Elinia was in absolute shock. "I... I..." Her lips trembled. "I was NOT following you!!!"
Zenkhald nodded understandingly. "Of course."
"I WASN'T!!" she yelled defensively.
"Yes, yes."
"I JUST HAPPENED to be walking near... the place where you were...!!" she stammered, her face turning a violent shade of red.
"I completely understand," Zenkhald said with a polite, infuriating smile.
She flared up like a torch. "I... I will find out who you are. I swear it."
Zenkhald bowed deeply. "I wish you the best of luck."
Elinia stood alone in the middle of the courtyard, red as a dragon's scale, watching him walk away. "...He even vanishes without using mana..."
The next morning, the Academy courtyard was packed. Students huddled together—some shaking with fear, others praying, and the arrogant few boasting about their guaranteed acceptance.
The professors had erected a massive magical blackboard in the center of the square. Above it read: ENTRANCE EXAM RESULTS.
The board hummed to life, glowing brightly as names began to appear in glowing script. The crowd held its collective breath.
CLASS #1: THE ELITE CLASS OF ROYAL BLOOD
This was the absolute highest class in the Academy. It was reserved for the children of the King, the heirs of Grand Dukes, the progeny of Archmages, and the undisputed best of the best. Rumor had it that to get in, you needed either royal blood or legendary talent.
The names appeared one by one: 1. Elinia Laurel (Crown Princess) 2. Finn Rainford (Duke's Heir) 3. Lucille Arvent (Archmage's Daughter) 4. Siren Walter (Fencing Prodigy)
"Only the chosen ones..." the crowd whispered in awe.
And then, at the very bottom of the board, a name flashed in bright gold:
12. ZENKHALD HELVARD
Absolute silence crashed over the courtyard.
"WHO IS THAT?!" "How did he get in there?!" "Isn't he just a baron's son?!" "NO! He's Mira's brother, remember?!" "Yes, but... the Elite Class?! That's the Princess's class!!"
A tidal wave of stares crashed onto Zenkhald. Hateful stares. Envious stares. Shocked stares.
Zenkhald stood perfectly still. I tried so hard to look normal. Why?!
But then he noticed his exact placement on the list. He was last. Twelfth out of twelve. Below every single noble heir and prodigy.
A small, genuine smile touched his lips. Dead last in the Elite Class... perfect. Less attention.
Across the courtyard, Princess Elinia stared at the board. "He's... in my class," she murmured, her eyes glinting. "How interesting."
But when she saw that he was ranked dead last, her brow furrowed. "Last? He's still faking it, even here?!" A fierce, competitive fire ignited in her chest. "I will expose him."
As the crowd began to disperse, a group of professors approached Zenkhald.
"Zenkhald Helvard. You are requested in a private consultation room."
Zenkhald knew exactly who was waiting for him. He nodded. "Lead the way."
The meeting room was dark and oppressively quiet. A single candle flickered on the heavy oak desk.
Merlin sat in a high-backed armchair. No guards. No assistants. He was entirely alone. He looked ancient, his skin like crumpled parchment. But his eyes were like two black holes tearing through the fabric of reality.
They flared with terrifying intensity when Zenkhald entered.
"Close the door, boy," Merlin commanded, his voice rasping like dry leaves.
Zenkhald shut the door.
"Approach."
Zenkhald stepped forward, stopping a few feet from the desk. The old man's gaze slowly swept over him, as if peeling back his skin, his muscles, and reading his very soul layer by layer.
Finally, Merlin whispered into the silence, "You... are not human."
Zenkhald said nothing.
Merlin leaned forward, his bony hands gripping the armrests. "When you touched the assessment orb... I heard a sound. It wasn't the sound of mana. It was the sound... of the Void. I know that sound. I have heard it exactly once in my life... four hundred years ago."
His knuckles turned white. "When the Demon King died."
The silence in the room was as thick as coagulated blood.
Merlin breathed heavily. "You... are him. The Legend. The Nightmare of the World." The old man's voice was a chaotic mix of terror, fury, awe, and desperate hope. "How...? How are you here? Why are you here? WHAT do you want?"
Zenkhald looked directly into the ancient mage's burning eyes. And then, he spoke softly.
"You gave me something... that I never had."
Merlin frowned deeply, utterly bewildered. "What...? What did I give you?"
"The chance to be born again," Zenkhald said. "Not as a King. Not as a weapon. But as a human."
Merlin froze. Completely, absolutely froze.
Slowly, the terrifying, blazing inferno in the old man's eyes began to soften, like a dying campfire being fed one last, gentle piece of wood.
"So..." Merlin whispered, his voice cracking. "...you did not return to destroy us?"
Zenkhald shook his head. "No. I did not come to destroy."
Merlin closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they held an emotion that hadn't been there in centuries: relief. A bitter, ancient, and incredibly rare joy.
"Thank you..." the old man breathed.
At that exact moment, the heavy wooden doors burst open.
"Master Merlin!" The two young mages rushed in, frantic. "You cannot be doing this! Your blood pressure!" "And your heart!" "Your mana is completely depleted!"
They practically lifted Merlin out of his chair. "We are taking you back to the infirmary!"
As he was carried away, half-conscious, the old man kept his eyes locked on Zenkhald, muttering weakly, "Boy... do not vanish... I need... to speak with you again..."
Zenkhald watched them carry the ancient mage away.
Outside the consultation room, Princess Elinia peered from behind a marble column. She stared down the empty hallway.
"Where is he...?" she whispered in disbelief. Zenkhald was already gone. "How... how does he keep disappearing without using magic...?!"
She clenched her small fists, her royal pride burning. "Helvard... you cannot hide from me forever."
CLASS #1: THE ELITE CLASS ROSTER
1. Elinia Laurel: Crown Princess. Magic: Four Elements + Supreme Mana Control. Personality: Cold, observant, highly suspicious. 2. Finn Rainford: Duke's Heir. Magic: Fire (Rare Royal Lineage). Personality: Arrogant, attention-seeking. 3. Lucille Arvent: Archmage's Daughter. Magic: Spatial (Teleportation, Distortion). Personality: Calm, strict, a magical perfectionist. 4. Siren Walter: Fencing Prodigy #1. Magic: None. Specializes in extreme speed. 5. Tara Walter: Fencing Prodigy #2. Magic: None. Specializes in motion analysis and lethal precision. 6. Reynar Helwood: Air Mage. Personality: Friendly, surprisingly humble for an elite. 7. Astra Failmore: Healing Mage. Personality: Kind, but slightly scatterbrained. 8. Edgar Rustwell: Blacksmith's Son. Combat + Metal Magic. Personality: Simple, honest, quick to make friends. 9. Miella Sunright: Orphan from a Knightly Order. Pure Swordsman. Personality: Quiet, highly strategic. 10. Kairen Stalford: Orphan from a Knightly Order. Pure Swordsman. Personality: Stubborn, fiercely driven. 11. Noah Levander: Chief Justice's Son. Illusion Mage. Personality: Quiet, but far too observant. 12. Zenkhald Helvard: "Long-Range Mage" (official cover story). Personality: Quiet, unassuming.
Waking up in the Academy dormitory was... an unusual experience.
The window was massive, stretching almost from floor to ceiling. The heavy dark curtains bore the silver crest of the Elite Class. The mattress was incredibly soft—the softest he had ever slept on. And... there was an absolute lack of any kind of alarm.
Zenkhald slowly opened his eyes. The sun was already high in the sky. He glanced at the mechanical clock on the nightstand.
8:50.
"...damn it."
The introductory class started at exactly 9:00. If he was late on the very first day, it would only draw more unwanted attention. And teleporting directly into the classroom was far too risky. I don't know how strong the teachers here are yet. If someone detects a spatial tear, I'm finished.
He dressed in record time and ran. He sprinted across the courtyard, cut corners through the gardens, and blew past two upperclassmen.
8:59.
He burst through the heavy wooden doors of the Elite classroom—and immediately felt the weight of a dozen stares.
The entire class turned to look at him.
The first person he saw was Princess Elinia. Her pale gold hair was perfectly styled, her icy eyes locked onto him. She sat dead center in the front row, as if intentionally positioning herself to be the undisputed focal point of the room.
Behind her sat Finn Rainford, the Duke's heir. He smirked at Zenkhald's disheveled appearance. Look at the weakling, can't even arrive on time.
To the left was Lucille Arvent, the Archmage's daughter. She didn't even bother looking at him; to her, he was empty space.
Siren and Tara Walter, the fencing prodigies, wore identical expressions of cold indifference. Reynar and Astra, though mages, already radiated the arrogant aura of the "Elite."
Edgar, the blacksmith's son, offered a friendly, sympathetic smile. Miella and Kairen, the knightly orphans, merely nodded in acknowledgment.
But beneath the surface, almost every single mind in the room was asking the exact same question: What is HE doing here?
Zenkhald walked down the aisle, ignoring the blatant whispers.
"Is that... the Helvard boy?" "I heard he's incredibly weak." "He's just from a minor baron family..." "How did he even get into the Elite Class?" "Probably just dumb luck on the written exam."
Yes, yes, please continue believing exactly that, Zenkhald thought, taking the very last seat in the back row. Quiet. Unnoticeable. Perfect.
At exactly 9:00, the air in the center of the room vibrated violently.
"What the...?" Finn muttered.
FLASH.
The teacher literally materialized from the shadows.
He radiated a cold, oppressive aura. He wore a pitch-black mantle. His hair was gray, but his face was young and sharp. His crimson eyes swept over the room, carrying a clear, unspoken message: I see right through all of you.
A Dark Magic instructor.
Shit, Zenkhald cursed internally. If anyone in this school can sense my true nature, it's him.
The teacher slowly evaluated the class. He looked at the Princess with respectful acknowledgment. He looked at Finn with professional detachment. He looked at Lucille with genuine interest.
And then... his crimson eyes landed on Zenkhald in the back row.
For a brief second, a flicker of disgust crossed the teacher's face. It was the look of a man who had just spotted mud tracked onto a pristine rug.
"Helvard?" the teacher asked coldly.
Zenkhald gave a small nod.
"I see," the teacher muttered, looking away with profound disappointment.
Better that reaction than the alternative, Zenkhald thought in relief.
The teacher began listing the Academy rules in a sharp, monotonous voice. "Teleportation within the halls is strictly forbidden outside of practical lessons. Leaving the Academy grounds without explicit permission is a severe offense. You must be in your dormitories by sundown. All duels must be sanctioned and supervised by an instructor."
Strangely, the teacher seemed to be constantly evaluating everyone as he spoke. He offered respect to some, interest to others. But he never looked at Zenkhald again.
Good.
During the ten-minute break, the whispers erupted like a storm.
"Kairen, did you hear? He's an Ice Mage." "Ha! An Ice Mage, but he poured mana into the orb like the Princess?" "Maybe he tricked the orb somehow?" "Did you see his eyes? He looked terrified! He's a coward!"
Edgar, the blacksmith's boy, walked over to Zenkhald's desk. "Hey, Zen. What kind of elemental magic do you use?"
"Ice," Zenkhald lied smoothly. "Just ice. And... it's quite weak."
Noah, the illusion mage, leaned back in his chair and murmured, "Hmm... strange... it's like you're sitting right there, but it feels like you aren't there at all."
Zenkhald tensed. Damn... the illusionist is too perceptive.
And then there was the Princess.
Elinia didn't approach him. She didn't say a single word. But she watched him. Coldly. Intently. With burning suspicion.
Her icy eyes screamed: Who are you, Zenkhald Helvard? And why are you hiding?
Zenkhald met her gaze and offered a weak, perfectly innocent, childish smile. "Nice to meet you."
She didn't reply. But the corner of her mouth twitched—whether out of deep intrigue or sheer irritation, he couldn't tell.
Excellent. The very first day, and the Crown Princess already hates me.
Honestly, he expected nothing less.
After the noisy break, the class settled down. Friend groups had already formed: the magical elite (Elinia, Finn, Lucille), the duelists (Siren, Tara, Miella, Kairen), the middle-ground (Reynar, Astra, Edgar), and the loners—Noah... and Zenkhald.
Yes, he was still dead last on the social ladder.
And it was absolutely perfect. The more invisible he was, the better.