I was still at the podium, skimming through the student list one last time as the murmurs of dismissal filled the Ganesha Hall.
One by one, students filed out in pairs or small clusters, their chatter low but buzzing with the energy of a concluded lecture.
I let out a quiet sigh, tapping the corner of the parchment with the edge of my finger.
sigh "Of course the class doubles when I get possessed by the game…"
My thoughts drifted as my eyes followed the flow of students leaving the room, but I suddenly felt a chill.
That subtle kind of awareness—when you know someone's staring at you.
And sure enough, when I shifted my gaze, I caught the princess.
Still seated, watching me.
Yellow, nearly white eyes—otherworldly and impossible to ignore.
Her hair was tied neatly back, the golden sheen catching the overhead mana-lamps.
But what struck me wasn't just her gaze.
It was the silver cross necklace hanging faintly from her collar.
A follower of the Church of Lumina.
Devout, by the look of it.
Well... it made sense.
Being the daughter of the Holy Emperor, I suppose faith ran deep in her blood.
In moments like this, I really wished I had more information about this world.
Especially from the original Noel's perspective or the type of game knowledge my sister-Hana had.
Who would've guessed that looking down on a romance-fantasy game would get me possessed by it?
It wasn't like I had some built-in cheat menu that could upload all the game's lore into my head like an encyclopedia.
Even the status window—barely helpful. It showed character profiles, sure, but only of people who were either close to Noel or major characters in the story.
I hadn't figured out the logic of it yet.
That guy from the Holy Grail...
I furrowed my brows, trying to remember.
Adele, wasn't it?
I had met him a few days ago.
Even if he and the original Noel weren't close, Adele was said to be one of the strongest Holy Knights.
If anyone qualified as a "major character," it should've been him.
And yet… his profile wouldn't show up.
I used to work in games—not writing them, but I had my fair share of designing characters.
I wasn't exactly a stranger to how characters were structured.
But this RoFan game?
It made my head hurt. Constantly.
Best to think about that mess at night—when everything overlaps and spirals.
For now, I had work to do.
This was my life now, for better or worse.
The princess finally rose, her long royal-blue skirt brushing softly against the polished floor as she turned away.
Her usual clique of aristocrats falling into step behind her like well-trained shadows.
Watching her go, I couldn't help but feel it again—that calculated grace.
Friendly, yes.
But the kind of friendliness that weighed benefits and outcomes behind every word.
The kind that was more political than personal.
As she disappeared through the tall doors, a different figure entered my periphery.
A familiar one.
Descending from the upper rows, slow and hesitant, was someone I hadn't expected to see now.
My voice left me before I could think.
"Nox..."
He was nearly at the door.
His steps paused mid-stride.
For a long second, he stood like that—still, almost frozen.
Then, slowly, he turned.
I expected him to meet my eyes.
He didn't.
Instead, his gaze fell low, head slightly bowed.
His fingers clutched the black notebook in his hands, the leather cover almost hidden beneath the black gloves he wore.
'Black tie. Second year,' I noted, instinctively scanning his uniform.
Why did I call him?
I didn't even know what kind of relationship the original Noel had with him.
Damn it.
Everything I remembered was in fragments—shattered pieces.
Some warm, some bitter.
All of them unhelpful.
'Noel, you bastard…'
I clenched my jaw.
Then he spoke.
"I'm sorry I didn't come to greet or see you when you arrived at the academy…"
He said, voice quiet, still not looking up.
"I'm also sorry for not attending your welcome party…"
His hands clenched the notebook tighter, the leather straining.
I stepped down from the podium.
Slowly. Carefully.
When I stopped in front of him, he flinched—just slightly—when I raised my hand.
'What the—'
I hesitated before placing my hand on his shoulder.
He tilted his head, just enough to glance at the hand I'd laid there.
"Never mind that…"
I said softly.
"How have you been? I assume you're faring well?"
The silence stretched.
Seconds passed. Maybe only five. But it felt like minutes. Hours.
Then finally—
"Yes. I'm doing fine..."
Nox answered.
But as he spoke, he reached up and gently removed my hand from his shoulder.
Something about that gesture stung more than I expected.
Still, I tried to keep the conversation alive.
"Are you sure? Because Mother said—"
"I'm okay."
Cut. Clean.
Just those words. Nothing more. Nothing less.
His tone wasn't angry, but it was clear. Final.
"Anything else? I should really hurry to my next class…"
He added, eyes still averted.
Should I say something more? Change the topic?
But no… I knew better.
Sometimes, you can't just force people to open up.
Not everything broken can be fixed with the right words.
Sometimes people build walls you're not meant to climb—not all at once, anyway.
You wait. You try again. You give them time.
So for now, I'd let him go.
He was my brother.
Whatever happened before, whatever the original Noel did or didn't do, I'd figure it out.
Bit by bit.
"Okay… you may leave," I said.
He didn't linger.
He turned and walked.
Then, just before he could disappear through the open doorway—
"Hey…"
I muttered.
He paused again, his foot halfway past the threshold.
"If you need anything… or have a problem..."
I said.
"...you can come see me in my office.
Or… even visit home."
He didn't say anything.
Didn't nod. Didn't turn.
He just left.
The doors closed softly behind him, and I was left staring at them.
Alone in the echo of a lecture hall that moments ago had been full of life.
"…Damn it, Noel."
I muttered under my breath.
Cursing myself.
Cursing the one who came before me.
***
The office of Professor Brael Von Kaelyn was as silent as it was severe.
Polished marble floors stretched out beneath a long mahogany desk littered only with papers stacked in brutal order.
Shelves of tomes and arcane materials surrounded the room like witnesses to the conversation.
Behind the desk, a large stained-glass window cast cold light in brilliant colors, refracting over the figure kneeling on the floor.
Dimitrus Von Harthen—Assistant Professor, second son of the disgraced Harthen line—was on his knees, fists clenched tightly on the carpet, head lowered in shame and frustration.
His shoulders trembled faintly, not from cold but from pressure, as though the very room had conspired to crush his dignity.
"I—I didn't mean for things to spiral like that, Professor Kaelyn..."
He stammered, his voice cracking slightly as he glanced up only to immediately look down again.
"That commoner—he was disrespectful.
You should've seen his face.
That smug fucking rat had the audacity to question me.
A nobody..."
He paused, biting back another curse.
"I was only doing what I thought was right—teaching him a lesson.
I couldn't just let it go... not in front of the rest of the class."
Silence.
Brael Von Kaelyn remained seated behind his desk, steepling his gloved fingers as he listened.
His black hair was neatly swept back, not a strand out of place.
Thin-rimmed glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, catching the afternoon light with a cold glint.
The long black trench coat he wore bore the silver insignia of the MET-Magic Engineering Tower.
Gleaming just over his chest, signifying his dual status as both professor and scholar.
His expression never changed.
Blank, unreadable, composed to the point of menace.
When he finally spoke, his voice was like a scalpel—sharp and measured.
"Commoners are vile..."
Brael said calmly.
"Weak blood, no manners, no concept of legacy or order.
But what you did today, Dimitrus..."
His tone shifted—lower, more venomous.
"...what you did today was more disgusting than anything that wretched boy could've mustered in a thousand lifetimes."
Dimitrus flinched as if slapped.
Brael slowly rose from his seat.
The chair creaked faintly beneath him, the only sound in the room as he walked forward, each step punctuated with the faint rustle of his coat.
"You embarrassed not just yourself..."
Brael continued, voice tightening.
"...but me.
You—who I brought under my wing despite the stain of your ruined bloodline.
You—whom I raised like my own.
And this is how you repay that kindness?
With juvenile outbursts and public spectacles?"
Dimitrus kept his head down, jaw clenched.
Sweat was beginning to bead at his temple.
A hand gripped his hair—tight.
Brael's fingers wound into his blond strands and yanked his head up to face him.
Dimitrus winced, teeth gritted, eyes wide and darting.
"Don't you ever forget your place..."
Brael hissed, bending lower, his face inches from Dimitrus.
"You belong to me.
Every step you take, every breath you draw—it's because I allow it.
One more fucking slip-up, Dimitrus…"
He yanked harder.
"...and you're done."
Then he let go.
Dimitrus's head fell again.
His breathing had grown shallow.
There was no need to be told twice.
He knew what was coming.
"Take up the position..."
Brael said coldly.
Dimitrus hesitated—but only for a heartbeat.
Then he moved.
Slowly, mechanically, he adjusted himself onto all fours, hands and knees pressed to the cold floor.
His fingers dug into the carpet, knuckles white.
His face was already flushed with shame.
He heard Brael step away.
A moment later, the quiet clatter of wood being lifted—Brael's staff, propped just beside the decorative plant in the corner.
Crack.
The first strike landed squarely across his backside.
Dimitrus hissed through clenched teeth, his body jerking slightly.
Crack.
A second—harder.
Sweat broke along his brow, one hand tightening further against the ground.
Crack.
The third came like a ritual—a sentence carried out.
His breath trembled, his face reddening not just from pain, but humiliation.
"Get up."
Brael commanded.
Dimitrus rose slowly, stiffly, his legs shaking slightly from the sting.
"You know how I despise beating you."
Brael said as he walked back to his desk, removing his glasses and setting them down with slow, deliberate grace.
"Especially over such trivial, unnecessary matters.
But this is to help you.
To shape you.
To mold you into the kind of man society demands."
Brael opened a drawer, pulled out a new pair of black gloves and slid them on, tossing the old pair into the wastebin like discarded skin.
He lifted his glasses, wiped them clean with a cloth, and placed them back on.
He looked toward the ceiling as if speaking to something greater.
"May Lumina forgive us both.
For the rod corrects, and the path is narrow, but through suffering, we are made whole."
He sat down again, hands folded.
"You may leave."
Dimitrus gave a deep bow, fists tight at his sides, then turned without a word.
Outside, the moment the heavy oak door shut behind him and the corridor swallowed him, he let loose in a whisper between gritted teeth.
"Fucking Noel... fucking Assistant Professor piece of shit. You'll both regret this. You'll dearly regret this."
His voice echoed down the empty corridor like poison.