"Diana."
She wanted to go home. Hide beneath her blanket, disappear from the world, and pretend none of this existed.
"Diana."
Why did dropping out of the academy have to come with such a massive fine? Who came up with the idea, and why did she sign that darn paper when enrolling?
"Diana."
What if he were in her next class? What if she had to sit in the same room as him for over an hour? The thought clawed at her every time she walked into a classroom.
"Diana."
What she didn't know was that behind the scenes, the teachers had quietly coordinated to make sure none of Bell's classes overlapped with hers. It was the least they could do, since their hands were tied from actually punishing him.
"Diana," her name was said a fifth time, and when a hand shook her shoulder, she finally blinked out of her daze.
"Hmm?" she muttered, looking up to see her friends.
"Class is over."
"Oh. Thanks for letting me know," she said softly, sliding her books into her bag.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. You seem out of it."
"You didn't even hear us calling your name."
"I'm fine," Diana insisted, waving her hands weakly. "Just... distracted."
Her friends didn't believe her, but they didn't pry either. "Come on," one of them said. "Get up before you're late for your next class. Which one of us has—"
As they compared schedules, Diana's mind drifted elsewhere. If she happened to share a class with Bell, she told herself she'd stare him down — burn a hole straight through his soul until he felt even a fraction of what she felt. But deep down, she knew the truth. She wouldn't even be able to look at him.
At the academy, classes rotated in an A, B, A, B, C pattern each week. Mondays and Wednesdays shared the same schedule, as did Tuesdays and Thursdays, while Fridays were reserved for longer, combined courses, effectively doubling the workload to make up for only being a once-a-week course.
Aside from the rotation, the school day was also divided into two halves: pre-noon and post-noon.
Pre-noon classes were standard: mathematics, literature, language, history, arts, music, etc. They were what you would typically expect from a school.
But post-noon was where the academy's true identity revealed itself.
Upon enrollment, each student typically selected one to two of five main paths to focus on: Combat, Rune Studies, Magical Engineering, Alchemy, or Scholarly Pursuits.
The last path was the least popular. After all, why would anyone attend the most prestigious academy in the country, one that produced heroes and historical legends, just to study like an ordinary student?
Each path contained dozens of specialized courses, which students could freely choose before the start of every semester.
There were hundreds of options, some deeply tied to the main disciplines, others entirely separate. The possibilities of your future when attending Trinity Academy were practically endless.
The original Bell had been a Combat student. This was the most popular discipline and where most of the heroes were born. Even after the new Bell took over his body, he hadn't changed that.
His first post-noon class was The Art of War, a hybrid course combining strategy lectures with hands-on tactical practice.
Of course, on the first day, it was nothing more than an overview and introductions.
Though Bell, Maya, and Sarakit all rode to the academy together in the mornings, they returned home separately. Bell had arranged drivers for each of them for when they'd finish with their after-school activities, unlike him, who would be returning to the estate as soon as he was done with classes. Maya was busy with her duties as a club president, while Sarakit had joined the Alchemy Club as she no longer had to worry about helping out at her parents' restaurant.
When Bell stepped outside, Jerman was already waiting by the car.
"Welcome back, Young Master," his retainer greeted, opening the door for him.
Thud.
"How was school?" he asked once the car began to move.
"Fine," Bell replied simply.
"Good to hear."
That marked the end of their conversation.
The entire day had passed, and still, Bell hadn't heard the name "Arthurr" once. The possibility that the protagonist had never transferred or never existed at all grew stronger with every passing hour.
He picked up a book that Jerman had thoughtfully left beside his seat. Unlike the histories and technical texts Bell usually read to expand his knowledge about this world he was brought into, this one was fiction, a story written for enjoyment rather than knowledge.
It was interesting to see that this world had an entirely new collection of stories that he'd never heard of before. Masterpieces like Romeo and Juliet or The Odyssey didn't exist and instead were replaced with different masterpieces, such as the very book that was in his hands.
Getting home in one piece, the moment the manor doors opened, Tiara rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him.
Other than hugging his little sister Rubi, this was the first embrace he'd received in this world — perhaps the first in years.
A part of him wanted to push her away.
Shivers crawled up his spine.
But another part of him was finding peace in her embrace. Her warmth felt comforting.
Tiara looked as if she were reuniting with her military son, who had been deployed overseas for multiple years, even though she had seen Bell just earlier that morning.
Tiara held him like a mother welcoming home a son from war. "How was school?" she asked quickly. "Did you enjoy it? Did anyone mistreat you? Did any of your teachers try and discriminate against you? Give me names. You know, if you want to drop out, we can afford the fine. You don't need to push yourself."
She had spoken as if she were trying to break the world record for the fastest speech ever.
She hadn't wanted him to return so soon. It had taken him weeks just to leave his room, and she feared the pressure would only worsen his state and maybe cause him to seclude himself from the rest of the world again.
But the first time she brought up this concern, Bell had reassured her that he was ready.
"Everything was fine, Mother," he said evenly.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Are you absolutely sure? It's okay not to be okay."
"Mother," Bell said patiently, "everything went well."
She studied him for a moment. It had once been easy to read his face—he'd been expressive, transparent. But now, with that mask of calm, he was impossible to decipher. It was almost as hard as solving the Gordian Knot.
"...Alright," she sighed softly. "If you say so. Just remember, you can always change your mind. Now go get changed and come down for dinner. Your older brother should be home soon."
"Okay."
Upstairs, Bell sat at his desk, staring at the notebook that lay open before him. Every page was filled with cramped handwriting, his records, thoughts, theories, all the information he remembered from the novel, his plans, etc.
Written in a language only he could understand, even if someone stumbled upon it, it would be impossible to solve, even if they were given a hundred years.
With the new information he received, he'd have to rethink everything now. If the protagonist truly didn't exist, his entire plan needed to be rebuilt from the ground up.
But that would have to wait.
He changed out of his uniform and into more casual clothes, joining his family for dinner. He wasn't hungry, but the habit of eating whenever his mother called him to eat had been developed.
"How's the food?" Tiara asked.
"It's the best as always," Cyro smiled.
Halfway through the meal, Cyro looked up. "By the way, Bell, why are you wearing gloves?" he asked.
Tiara and their grandfather both perked up slightly, pretending not to listen too closely, even though they had been curious and wanted to know the answer since the first day they saw him with the black gloves on.
"I mean, you've been wearing them all day," Cyro continued. "Earlier this morning, I even saw you head out to school with them on. Is something wrong with your hand? Gramps said you had a hole in it a while ago. Is it still not healed?"
Cyro was bombarding Bell with questions as his own thoughts started to make him panic and worry for his little brother.
"No," Bell said calmly.
"That's not the reason," Tiara interjected gently. "He's been wearing gloves even before that."
There was a twinkle in her eyes, and her tone carried an unspoken warning — don't get hurt again.
Bell couldn't promise that. Especially not when the wound was self-inflicted.
"I just don't feel comfortable without them," he replied, giving the safest truth he could.
He couldn't tell them everything. Revealing who he truly was or where he came from might invoke the universe's wrath. It was already an established fact that the universe had a mind of its own, and it could punish people for breaking the laws, which is why he had to keep his godhood a secret. What if being a soul from another universe was also one of the laws he wasn't allowed to break?
But even if that wasn't the case and he was allowed to tell them the truth, he wouldn't.
There were many reasons why, but firstly, he doubted they would let him live peacefully if they discovered he stole their son's body.
And also, he wasn't comfortable letting them too deep into his world. Even if they were now technically his family, he still felt uncomfortable letting them walk past the emotional barrier he's put up for over a decade now.
Some walls weren't meant to be broken.
Seeing that Bell wasn't going to answer any further, Cyro moved on.
When it was clear he wouldn't say more, Cyro let it go, and the table conversation shifted. They talked about school, Rubi's new obsession with singing, and the release of a new potion sweeping through the market.
When the timing felt right, after he finished all the food on his plate, Bell excused himself and returned to his room.
He pulled out a fresh notebook and began to write.
One page.
Then another.
And another.
By the time he reached the hundredth page, he finally closed it and exhaled.
Later, at the training grounds, he was in the middle of hanging upside down, doing sit-ups, when his older brother walked in.
"I heard you've been working harder than ever," Cyro said, grabbing a wooden sword from the rack.
Bell dropped down, landing softly.
"Would you do your older brother the honor," Cyro continued with a grin, tossing another sword toward him, "of showing me whether your swordsmanship has improved… or gotten rusty?"
The most growth that Bell would see was when he sparred with the retainer who accompanied him every session.
He couldn't imagine just how much more insight he would get when sparring with someone dozens of caliber more superior than the retainer.
"The honor is mine," Bell said quietly, before dashing forward.
Thunk.