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Rhyka's head lolled slightly to the side as he blinked through the pain. His vision pulsed. Black spots bloomed in the corners of his sight, dancing like ash across the edges of the classroom. The pounding in his skull dulled every sound, but through it, he could make out movement—shapes. Voices.
Standing above him, near the center of the room, were three people. Millis. Rin. Hella.
The worst possible combination.
Millis stood slightly hunched, his back awkwardly straightening as he noticed Rhyka looking his way He was shortbalways had been and until a year ago, he had been forgettable. Weak in both stature and presence. But that changed the moment his magic surfaced. He had awakened a flashy, volatile affinity that drew attention fast, and for someone so used to being ignored, the praise came like a drug. He soaked it up greedily. Over time, it twisted him. The compliments. The sudden rise in rank. He wasn't just proud now—he was rotten with it.
His expression said everything. A mixture of nerves and pride. Guilt hovered faintly on his face at first, like he knew what he'd done had gone too far But it was short-lived. His lips twitched A slow, practiced grin spread across his face—wide, too polished to be real. His chest lifted slightly with false confidence.
And then came the sound.
Laughter.
It started small. One or two snickers from the far left corner of the room. Then more followed, building like an echo in a canyon. Quiet at first. Then louder. Sharper. It didn't take long before the sound filled the room—a twisted little chorus of secondhand cruelty. No one had to say anything outright. They were laughing because they could.
Then Hella spoke.
"Oh, Millis," she said in a mock-sweet voice, loud enough for everyone to hear, "how could you? To such a pathetic boy?"
The room cracked into more laughter, some of it uncomfortable, but no one stopped it.
Hella was dangerous in a different way. She wasn't loud in class. She wasn't top of the rankings. But she had a cruel eye for weakness. She'd always been the type to sniff out who was beneath her in the hierarchy and push just hard enough to hurt but never hard enough to get in trouble. Now that magic had come into play, she didn't have to hide it. She used her strength like a knife, always pointed down.
Then Rin chimed in, her arms folded across her chest like she was standing before something unworthy of her time.
"To actually dare to reprimand Eto," she said, her tone dripping with disdain, "when you're just some insignificant, insecure little bug? That's rich."
Rin had always clung to power—quietly aligning herself with whoever was at the top of the social food chain. The second Eto and Rinnte became stars of the class, she attached herself like a parasite. Shameless. Her words weren't cruel out of hatred. They were casual. Detached. Like stepping on something beneath her shoe.
Eto, still standing nearby, didn't speak. Her mouth was slightly open, brows furrowed in confusion. She looked from Hella to Rin, then to Millis, trying to process what was happening.
She hadn't ordered the attack. That much was obvious.
But she didn't stop it either.
And that silence was its own answer.
Rhyka's eyes fluttered again. The pounding in his chest hadn't stopped. Every breath still came shallow and short. His ribs screamed with every inhale, and he couldn't tell if one was cracked or just badly bruised. His arm trembled where it tried to support even a portion of his weight. Blood from the cut on his forearm was already drying, sticking to the inside of his sleeve.
He wasn't fully conscious. Not really.
His mind drifted in and out, catching only pieces of the things they said. Bits of words like "trying to act cool", "scowling like a tough guy", "doesn't even have magic", "still shows up anyway". All of it blurred into a buzzing haze. He couldn't tell if they were speaking to him or about him anymore.
His eyes opened a little wider just in time to see Hella take a step closer.
Her expression was sharp, calculated.
She'd never let go of that chair-throwing incident from the year before. She'd worn it like a wound, even though it hadn't touched her. This was her moment. She could hurt him now—and it wouldn't cost her anything.
No teachers had entered.
No one was stopping her.
Her hands clenched at her sides. A subtle flicker of light ran up her arms mana. She reinforced her limbs, low-level body enhancement. Nothing fancy. Just enough to give her weight and speed.
And then she moved.
She grabbed a discarded desk chair—light, wooden, a few scratches along the legs. She gripped it by the top rail, raised it high, and threw it with no hesitation. Full force Clean arc.
Straight at Rhyka.
The chair whistled through the air, cutting across the space between them in an instant.
It missed him by inches.
The leg of the chair slammed into the ground just beside his ribs and bounced, then clattered loudly across the floor before skidding to a stop.
Too close.
Rhyka flinched on instinct, his shoulder jerking back in pain as he curled reflexively. His jaw clenched as another wave of pressure pulsed through his side. He couldn't even yell—his breath was still too shallow.
Hella didn't flinch.
She smiled.
The rest of the room had gone quiet again. Not because they were shocked—but because they were watching. Like it was a show. And no one was stepping in to say it had gone too far.
The message was clear:
You're dirt to us not worthy of our grace or respect
Rhyka, barely holding consciousness, stared at the floor as his pulse roared in his ears.
The tension in the classroom was thick and quiet now. No one spoke. The laughter had died, but not from guilt more from anticipation. Eyes lingered on Rhyka, still curled on the floor near the wall, bruised, bleeding, and barely moving.
Then the door opened.
It wasn't loud. Just a soft click of the handle and the creak of old hinges.
Rinnte stepped in first.
His expression was unreadable. Neutral. Not curious Not alarmed Just watching
Behind him came Professor Emmet.
His gaze swept the room immediately. Not fast. Not panicked. Controlled. Measured. The way someone scanned a battlefield instead of a classroom.
The air shifted again. Like pressure had dropped.
Several students straightened in their seats. A few paled. The ones who had been laughing seconds earlier suddenly found something very interesting about their desks. Some tried to look confused. Others just froze entirely.
No one rushed to explain.
But Emmet had already seen enough.
His eyes landed on Rhyka—still on the floor, blood on his sleeve, dirt on his uniform, breathing shallowly alongside the myriad of flesh wounds he could tell from the dripping through his uniform. Then his gaze slowly traveled to the discarded chair, still lying near the center of the room where it had landed.
He didn't say a word.
Rinnte stepped further into the room but stayed near the wall, folding his arms. He didn't speak either. He didn't need to. He was watching everyone one by one as if taking inventory. His face was stone. Not shocked. Not outraged.
Just cold.
Emmet walked forward in silence. His footsteps were the only sound.
No lectures. No yelling.
He knelt beside Rhyka without speaking.
Rhyka stirred faintly, but couldn't lift his head. His body shifted at the sound, but his muscles didn't respond.
His mouth parted, trying to say something, anything—but no words came. Just a rough breath, then a cough, weak and dry.
Emmet placed a steady hand on his shoulder. Then, with practiced care, he shifted one arm under Rhyka's back and the other beneath his knees. Without a word, he lifted the boy off the ground.
There was a dull grunt from Rhyka as pain surged through him from the movement, but Emmet didn't jostle him.
He held him with the ease of someone who had done this before.
Rhyka's blood had stained part of his uniform, but Emmet didn't look down at it. His face was calm. Controlled.
And silent.
He didn't ask what happened.
He didn't need to.
As Emmet turned toward the door, movement flickered in the classroom behind him. A few students shifted. Most stayed still. Watching.
Eto opened her mouth.
Then stopped.
Her hand moved halfway up—like she meant to say something, to speak, to admit what had happened—but it dropped back down just as fast.
She looked away.
Not because she didn't care.
But because she convinced herself it was okay. That no one meant for things to go that far. That maybe Rhyka had pushed too hard. That maybe it was best if it just passed. After all, her friends would be in trouble. Serious trouble. And all of this—she told herself—was for her.
If she said something now, it would all unravel.
So she said nothing.
And that silence, more than the laughter or the violence or the insults, settled over the room like a stain that wouldn't wash out.
Emmet left the classroom, Rhyka in his arms, without once looking back.
And Rinnte?
He stood for a moment longer. Then turned and followed.
Still silent.
But his eyes never left the students behind.
Not once.