No one ever mentioned where Seraphyne was during the first-day's lunch. So to find her observing me now. How long has the Valmont heir's gaze been pinned to my back? And what cracks has my existence already carved into this story's script?"
"You've been going from facility to facility for quite awhile now. Why?"
I tilt my head, just enough to feign deference. "Admiring your handiwork. How many students owe the Valmont household favors now? Ten? Twenty?"
Her smile doesn't reach her eyes.
"Twenty-three. But you're avoiding the question."
"And you're avoiding the obvious." I step closer, lowering my voice.
"Bold of you to speak to me like that. Do you have the wits and strength to back yourself up?"
"The strength? Of course not. You're a Novice-Class Mage, an entire class above me. But smarts? Debatable."
"Are you suggesting you are smarter than me, Mun?"
"How could I do such a thing? No, I am not your highness."
"Then it would be smart for you to answer my question."
"Will do your highness. As I said, you're avoiding the obvious. I. Am similar to you."
"How so?"
"I want to analyze them. Because if I see their flaws, I know them too—and debts grow so much heavier when the collector knows exactly where to press and pull"
A flicker in her red, imperial, pupils Got her.
"Clever. But cleverness is just another currency."
"Then consider this a down payment." I smile.
She smiles back:
"Come Mr. Mun. History is starting soon."
She begins walking towards the main building, her fiery hair hiding the choker around her neck as she turns her back.
Making my impression on Seraphyne? Success.
I trail just far enough behind一close enough to watch, distant enough to deny.
We reach history class, the air thick with parchment dust and whispered alliances. Seraphyne pauses at the doorway, her silhouette framed by stained-glass light—a queen inspecting her board.
"Mun." She doesn't look back. "It would be nice to be the contractor of contractors."
A dismissal. A promise.
"And if possible. Do recommend your contact lens supplier - such remarkable pigment quality deserves recognition."
I stiffen. Shit—Temporal Anchor's still active. My eyes must be glowing green. No wonder this conversation felt like wading through syrup.
"U-uh. Will do your highness."
With a soft chuckle, she's gone, gliding toward the other two princesses. Treating enrollment as chess. She is the queen and us the pawns.
Guess I'll keep Temporal Anchor running—professor's not here yet anyway. Might as well scan the room. History's mandatory, so all the usual characters should be here: The Heroines, Kael, nobles, Spirit Tamers, Swordsmens, Alchemists... Wait.
Her.
Don't. Recognize that girl.
Who the fuck are you?
Screw the seat I chose in Biothaumatics. I stride toward her. Up close, she's all edges—long ink-black hair, obsidian eyes sharper than a xianxia villainess's tongue. High cheekbones, vulpine nose, lips that'd make a jade beauty seethe. And those ears—slightly pointed, like she's halfway between realms.
Definitely not Elenosian. Not Valmontic. Not Aurelthian.
"Is there anyone sitting here?"
Her voice slices the air, each syllable precision-cut:
"No one sits here. You want?
Earth Asian. Korean? Japanese? No—that bone structure... Chinese. Oh fuck.
"If it's not taken, Ms...?"
"Xuě Xīlián." Her tone could frost glass.
Bingo. Cultivator.
"Isaac. Isaac Mun." I flash my most obnoxious grin and lob the nuke: "Hěn gāoxìng rènshi nǐ (Nice to meet you)."
Her pupils flare like lit gunpowder. "Nǐ huì shuō zhōngwén (You too can speak Chinese)?"
"Eh, yīdiǎndiǎn (Abit)," Gotcha. "Wǒ gèng xǐhuān yīngwén (I prefer English)."
I'm just remembering what the transfer student friends taught me back when astrophysics got so dull we'd lapse into our native tongue. Those sleep-deprived 3 AM study sessions where orbital mechanics dissolved into Mandarin slang and half-remembered folk songs.
A flicker of understanding passes between us - that silent kinship of outsiders. She reminds me so painfully of my transfer student friends, adrift in lecture halls where every whispered joke landed wrong, every cultural reference drowned in the silence of foreign air. Just like me on this foreign planet.
"A-ah... please..."
Her voice carries that particular softness of someone rearranging their personal space for the first time in months. When she rises to let me in, the movement is oddly ceremonial一like she's performing some unspoken ritual of displaced souls.
Before anything, I need to figure out her stats. If she's a cultivator, God only knows how absurd her numbers must be.
"Temporal Anchor V2, Inhabitant ID Xuě Xīlián."
…
Silence.
[ Inhabitant stats cannot be fetched. ]
[ No registered record found. ]
Yeah, figures. No easy answers, then. Fine—I still have my wits. And my mouth.
I tilt my head, studying her. "Where are you from, Ms. Xīlián?"
She fidgets, fingers twisting in her sleeves. "A-ah… X-Xue'er…"
"Hm?"
"Call me… Xue'er." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "It's… rare to find someone who speaks the same tongue."
"A family nickname?" I raise an eyebrow. "Shouldn't that be reserved for your—"
"I insist, Mr. Mun."
Damn, she's shy. Then again, stumbling across another Chinese speaker in a foreign nation? No wonder she's flustered.
"If you say so." I offer a slight smile. "Then call me Isaac."
Her cheeks flush pink. "O-okay… Isaac."
Progress. Closer now. Time to dig.
"So, Xue'er," I lean in just slightly, "where exactly are you from?"
"Wǔlín, The Jiǔxiāo Empire."
I nod sagely, as if I've heard of it. Which I haven't. But if I play along, echo her words, I can bluff my way through.
"Jiǔxiāo Empire… mhm."
"Yes… the Liánhuá Sect. My parents lead it."
"Oh?" I whistle. "So you're basically royalty."
She ducks her head, fingers tightening around her sleeves. The hesitation is obvious—either insecurity or something deeper. Interesting. Push further.
"Then you're a top-tier heir, yeah? The pride of Jiǔxiāo?"
"I—I wouldn't say that—"
"Who have you crushed so far, Xue'er?"
She stiffens. "O-only the Huǒyún Sect's heir. I'm… still in my Physical Building phase. The others are older."
"Wait." I pause. "How old are you?"
Shit. Bad question. Her face freezes.
"Ah… w-well, technically 17." She hesitates. "But my mental age… is about 127."
I blink. "...What."
Her voice shrinks further. "T-too weird?"
"Yep."