The student sat there, trembling beneath the weight of silence, the aftertaste of Nolan's presence still lingering in the classroom like smoke from a snuffed-out torch.
His hands remained clenched tightly over his knees, his knuckles white from pressure, sweat soaking through the fabric of his uniform.
Nolan's command echoed in his mind—fifty mana crystals. Fifty. He didn't even have ten. His lips trembled as he muttered in disbelief.
"Why… why does it always end like this?"
His voice, barely louder than a whisper, disappeared into the quiet void of the classroom.
The sound of birds outside felt like mockery.
He glanced down at his bruised knuckles, his torn sleeve, the faint crimson smear that stained his collarbone.
Memories swelled—of getting shoved in the corridor, his food stolen, his bag kicked into the stream near the back garden.
