The morning air buzzed with excitement. A subtle tension lingered over the vast courtyard of the Academy, the sky dyed a brilliant azure, unmarred by clouds. Sunlight bounced off the clean marble pillars and golden spires of the central building, giving the entire campus a divine glow.
But it wasn't the scenery that drew the crowd today.
Parents in lavish garments mingled with nobles from all walks of prestige, their expressions split between pride and expectation. Teachers dressed in formal robes stood like sentinels along the arena perimeter, quietly observing the chaos unfold. Students, both new and veteran, gathered in clusters—some whispering nervously, others beaming with anticipation.
It was midterm season.
The Midterm Practicals were the Academy's pride, a carefully orchestrated system designed not just to assess skill, but to display it—to the public, to the noble factions, and most importantly, to the ranking committee. Titles would shift after today. Fame would bloom. And for some, this would mark the start of their rise... or fall.
A large coliseum had been prepared just beside the main campus field, with transparent magic barriers set in place around the stage. Above, floating orbs recorded the event, broadcasting it to distant cities and interested eyes far beyond the academy's walls. Rankboards were already live in the sky, glowing names shifting positions as real-time updates fed through.
Among the buzz, a lone figure stood still near the shadow of a stone archway, blazer unbuttoned, his cyan hair ruffled by the morning breeze.
Caelum Veris.
His violet eyes traced the crowd with a quiet detachment. Noise, color, laughter, adrenaline—it was all there. And yet, he felt none of it. The swell of excitement that rippled through the masses failed to reach him. Not because he was calm—but because there was nothing to disturb in the first place.
Empty.
He couldn't say why it felt so hollow. But maybe it had always been like that.
Maybe it was that dream.
Maybe it was the grave.
"...Amanda Veris," he muttered under his breath.
That name had come up again. His mother's.
The image of a soulless boy by a grave still haunted the edge of his vision. The words he spoke—"I swear they'll pay..."—were a curse not yet fulfilled. A promise left to rot in time.
"Sorry I don't think I can fulfill that wish."
She had died. And his father, murdered by another house for reasons that now seemed trivial in hindsight. All of it... part of a story written before he had even arrived in this body.
Still, he couldn't bring himself to feel it.
No sadness. No rage. Just a muted ache at the edge of his awareness—like a scar on skin that had long since gone numb.
He adjusted the collar of his shirt and stepped out from under the shadow. His steps were slow, measured. The sun glinted against the Academy's central clocktower, a monument to discipline and order.
10:14 a.m.
Not long now.
The practicals would begin soon, and with them... the beginning of his debut.
Not the villain's debut the story had once foretold. Something different. Something worse.
He'd been feeling unstable in his mana since this morning. His trait was slowly consuming him. It took every bit of his willpower to keep it locked down.
"Ever since that dream..."
His trait was resurfacing, and there was no way to hide it.