As he lay back against the pillows, robe loose, body still warm from the release, Lucen stared at the ceiling.
His mind clear.
This might really be the way.
In a world where the so-called "protagonists" were handed divine blessings, broken abilities, and still lost everything—maybe this was how he survived. Not by chasing the same power. Not by trying to compete in sword swings.
But by turning Lucen into something more.
He didn't need to follow the path of a hero.
He could carve his own. Every connection could be power. Every desire, a weapon. Every partner.
——————————
At the edge of the continent, between the tense borders of three kingdoms, sat an isolated city surrounded by high stone walls and magic barriers that pulsed faintly in the air.
Astrea Academy.
A place so massive it dwarfed most royal estates. Bigger than some small kingdoms' capitals. Palaces from lesser empires could fit within its walls and still have room left over for gardens and training grounds.
And in one of those training grounds—barren, open, stone-floored and scarred from repeated use—three bodies were already laid out, groaning.
Iris Ferndale stood in the center.
Dark purple hair tied back in a messy tail, strands loose around her face. Sweat clung to her neck. Her knuckles were red, dust smeared along her jaw, but her breath was steady.
She looked like Arwen.
That same sharp bone structure. Same kind of beauty.
But her father's presence was in her eyes. And in the way she fought.
One of the boys tried to stand—barely.
His leg shook, and before he could say a word, her heel slammed straight into his chest with a crack, sending him flying back across the dirt.
Another groaned from the ground, coughing hard, blood mixed with spit.
She didn't even look at him.
Her fist came down clean on the third guy's face—knocking his head into the stone with a thud that silenced his breath.
And then it was quiet.
Only the hum of the wind passing over the mountaintop field.
Iris stood straight, brushing dust off her shoulder like it was nothing.
"You were talking," she said coldly, her voice low, sharp.
The first boy wheezed, coughing hard as he tried to push himself up.
"W-We didn't mean—"
She stepped forward and kicked him square in the stomach—hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs again.
Her eyes narrowed.
"I heard everything."
She knelt beside him, grabbing his hair, yanking his head up.
He winced, blinking through swollen eyelids.
"You said something about a 'bedridden noble brat,' didn't you?"
His mouth opened—then shut. No answer.
She pulled him closer, until their faces were inches apart.
"You don't get to talk about Lucen," she said, each word colder than the last. "You don't know anything about him."
Her hand let go, letting him drop like trash.
She stood up again, wiping her knuckles off on her sleeve, blood and dirt staining the fabric.
Her back straight. Her face unreadable.
But her hands still clenched.
The third boy hadn't moved.
Not because he didn't want to.
Because he couldn't.
Iris's boot cracked straight into his ribs again—hard enough that something inside him snapped. He let out a wet, broken cough, curling to his side, his mouth open but no sound coming out.
The second one tried to crawl away.
She walked up behind him, grabbed him by the back of his collar, and slammed his face into the stone.
Once.
Twice.
Thud.
Thud.
Blood splattered. Teeth hit the ground.
He stopped moving after that.
"Still breathing," she muttered.
She turned to the last one—the one who'd mouthed off the most. Her foot came down hard on his back. He yelped, but she wasn't done. She stomped again. Then again. Then harder. Her heel driving straight into the back of his shoulder, then down to his thigh, then one more strike to the side of his ribs, just to make sure.
His scream tore through the courtyard.
No one stopped her. That was the rule here. At Astrea, if you started something, you finished it. Strength was everything. Pain was part of the curriculum.
But this…
This wasn't a sparring match anymore.
This was destruction.
Even the small group of students watching from the edges had gone quiet. Not out of respect. Out of fear.
She looked down at the one under her boot—face bloodied, one eye swollen shut, his hand twitching like he was still trying to crawl.
She could end his future right here. One more hit. One more stomp.
And for a second… she wanted to.
They talked about Lucen.
Her chest rose and fell, jaw tight, fist still clenched.
They called him weak. Useless. A half-dead noble wasting with rare light affinity. Whispered about how she was the only strong one left in the Ferndale name. That their brother might as well not exist.
They didn't know him.
They didn't know anything.
She raised her foot again—
And froze.
'If I go further, they won't walk again. Maybe not even live.
And if they die…'
Expulsion. Reprimand. An incident tied to her house name. Tied to Evelyn. To Lucen.
Evelyn still had to move freely in this Academy.
She let her foot drop back to the ground.
Her jaw clenched. She tasted blood—wasn't sure if it was hers.
"Next time," she muttered, voice low and cold, "I won't stop."
Then she turned.
Didn't look back.
The crowd parted as she walked past them, slow, every step deliberate.
Her hands were shaking.
She grit her teeth harder.
And then she disappeared around the corner, heading back toward the high towers of the female dormitories—stone floors stained with the blood of three boys left broken behind her.
Astrea's female dorms weren't just grand—they were excessive.
Polished white stone walls lined with engraved pillars, velvet-lined corridors, gold-trimmed windows taller than most people. Each student's room was more like a noble's private suite—complete with a desk, bathing room, and bed large enough to hold four.
Iris Ferndale's dorm stood at the far end of the west wing, overlooking the beautiful view.
She sat quietly now, her back against the padded armrest of her chaise lounge. Her jacket was tossed to the side, hands still lightly bruised, a damp cloth sitting untouched in the washbasin.
In her lap was a single folded letter—its seal already broken.
Paper. Ink. Her mother's handwriting.
She'd read it once. Then again. And now… again.
Each line made her chest tighten just a little more.
Lucen has awakened.
He's conscious, sitting up, speaking.
He's smiling.
Her fingers curled tighter around the paper, the edge crinkling faintly.
She didn't cry.
But she pulled the letter slowly to her chest, arms crossing over it, pressing it right against her heart.
She stayed like that for a while—eyes closed.
Her little brother was alive.
Awake.
After two years of silence, uncertainty, and guilt she never dared voice out loud—he was back.
And for the first time in a long time, the battlefield outside the academy walls… felt a little less heavy.
——————————————
It had been a few hours since Arwen left his room.
The air was still faintly warm. The sheets had been changed. The stain from earlier was gone. But the feeling lingered—soft and charged, like the heat of someone's breath still hung in the space between his skin and robe.
Lucen lay on his side, half-covered, one hand resting across his stomach.
He opened the system with a thought.
The panel flickered up.
[Lady Arwen — Affection: 99/100 | Desire: 64/100]
Lucen blinked.
A few hours ago, that number was higher.
"…Huh."
He tilted his head, reading the small indicator beside her profile.
Recent drop detected. Likely release through masturbation.
He let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh.
"She really touched herself…"
That explained why her face looked a little different when she left. More flushed. Her eyes softer, like she'd just come down from something she wasn't ready to name.
Lucen stretched, rolling onto his back with a slow exhale.
"No rush then," he muttered. "I'll get her again. Properly."
But not right away.
He needed to plan.
Because no matter how warm the bed was—the real game was outside this estate.
Lucen stared at the ceiling, his expression shifting.
Kaine…
The protagonist.
The center of the original story.
Astrea Academy was his arc. Where everything started. Where he met his circle. His enemies. His women. Where every major thread that shaped the world unfolded.
Lucen remembered.
Half the damn plot unfolded between those academy walls.
And if he wanted to change anything, if he wanted to twist this fate and make his own story—then he needed to be there.
He had no interest in playing catch-up from the shadows.
Get into the Academy.
That was the next move.
Some way. Somehow.
His body might be weak right now, and his public image still stuck as a sickly noble heir nobody took seriously, but that didn't matter. What mattered was getting inside that place—before Kaine started gathering people like flies to honey.
Lucen smirked faintly.
"Let's see how many scenes I can steal for myself."
—————————————
The long dining table stretched nearly the length of the hall. Tall windows lined one side, soft evening light spilling across polished wood. Silverware clinked gently. Steam rose from untouched plates.
Lady Arwen sat at one end, dressed in a modest gown. Her posture perfect, her expression soft.
Lucen sat across from her, calmly eating.
He could feel her eyes on him the entire time.
She wasn't eating.
She just sat there with a quiet smile, chin resting lightly on her hand, watching him lift each spoonful. Like the sight of him eating was enough to make her full.
Lucen didn't say anything for a while. He kept eating, chewing slowly.
Then, as he set his fork down:
"I want to go to Astrea Academy."
The words came out calm. Clear.
Her smile faded.
Not completely. But the corners of her lips fell just slightly. Her gaze lowered.
And her hands, which had been still all this time, quietly gripped the edge of the table.
"…Oh."
That was all she said at first.
The silence lingered.
Lucen kept looking at her. He knew she heard him. And he knew exactly what that look meant.
She stayed silent for a moment.
He took another bite, chewing calmly.
Across the table, Arwen finally spoke, her voice soft.
"…Why, dear?"
He paused, swallowed.
Then answered without looking at her.
"I want to get stronger," he said simply. "And I want to meet people my age. Be somewhere competitive. Active."
Another bite.
"Just being locked in a room forever doesn't feel right."
Arwen lowered her gaze.
Her smile faded more this time.
He wasn't wrong. But it still stung.
After everything—two years by his side, never knowing if he'd wake up, watching him fade little by little—now he was awake, warm, breathing, smiling… and talking about leaving.
Her fingers curled softly around the edge of her plate.
Still, her voice came out sweet.
"…I understand, baby."
She forced a small smile. "Who am I to tell you no, after everything…"
She paused again. Then added, gently,
"But—Lucen, dear… Astrea Academy's new term is starting in a month and a half."
She looked at him with soft, worried eyes.
"The entry requirement this year for nobles is being at least a 3rd Circle mage. That's not just paperwork… that's real casting. Measured output. Verified by the Academy's officials."
Her hands folded in her lap.
"You've only just started walking again. How will you reach that level in time?"
Her voice didn't doubt him.
It hurt to say it.
But she had to.