The next morning, the air smelled of rain-soaked stone and fresh ink — the scent of a new chapter.
Elara stood outside the lecture hall, her fingers wrapped around a warm cup of herbal tea from the canteen. Students buzzed around her, excitement and anxiety flowing like static between their shoulders. Everyone was dressed in variations of white coats, linen tunics, or student uniforms bearing the institute's golden crest.
No one approached her.
But they all looked.
Some subtly. Others not.
She heard murmurs as she passed:
> "Is that her?"
"The girl who humiliated her own family?"
"I heard she used poison at a party—"
"No, she's a genius. Professor Ren personally vouched for her."
"Whatever she is, she's not normal."
Elara ignored them.
She didn't need acceptance.
She needed knowledge — and time.
Two things she had earned with blood.
---
Her first class was in a sprawling lecture hall lined with shelves of ancient medical texts and modern whiteboards. At the front stood Professor Ren, tall, with silver at his temples and the posture of a former soldier.
His voice cut through the chatter like a blade.
"Medicine is war," he began, without greeting. "You fight for your patients against time, nature, and human weakness. If you want comfort, transfer to literature. If you want glory, leave now."
Silence.
No one moved.
"Good," he said. "Then let's begin."
---
Elara sat near the front, her notes neat, her attention sharp. She already knew most of the fundamentals. What she didn't know was how they were taught here — and that was just as important.
Halfway through the lecture, the door opened.
Every head turned.
A tall boy walked in — late.
He wore a black tailored uniform with no crest, only a small golden pin on his lapel shaped like a flame. His hair was dark, short at the sides, but slightly tousled on top. His face was pale, almost translucent, with sharp cheekbones and a gaze that cut through the room.
The air changed the moment he entered.
Even Professor Ren paused.
"You're not on my roster," Ren said.
"I was added this morning," the boy replied, handing over a sealed folder. "Transfer from the Northern Biomedical Institute. Full scholarship. Medical specialization."
His voice was deep, smooth. Familiar.
Elara didn't breathe.
Ren took the folder, read a few lines, and gave a short nod. "Take a seat."
The boy's eyes scanned the room — and stopped on her.
Their gazes locked.
For a second, the rest of the room faded.
There was something behind his eyes. Something broken. Something ancient.
Something that remembered her.
He walked down the aisle.
And took the empty seat beside her.
---
"I didn't expect to see you so soon," he said under his breath, not looking at her.
Her fingers tensed around her pen.
"I don't know you," she replied softly.
He smiled faintly. "Not in this life, maybe."
A chill ran down her spine.
Before she could respond, Professor Ren resumed the lesson.
---
For the rest of the class, he didn't speak again. But his presence burned beside her — steady, unshakable, and... familiar in a way that twisted something deep in her chest.
After class, as she gathered her things, he stood.
"Do you still believe in promises?" he asked.
She looked up slowly.
His eyes weren't mocking.
They were full of... pain.
Real pain.
And hope.
"I don't make promises I can't keep," she said.
"Good," he whispered. "Because I'm not here by coincidence, Elara."
He turned and walked away before she could ask his name.
---
Qi Ren found her outside the building a few minutes later.
"You okay?" he asked, looking worried. "You kind of spaced out after class."
"Did you see the new student?"
Qi frowned. "Tall? Black uniform? Looked like a vampire prince?"
"Yes."
"He's causing a stir. No one even knows his name yet. The admin said his file is sealed under some elite directive. All we know is that he's from the north and his father owns some biotech empire."
Elara stared at the pavement.
Her heart pounded in her ears.
"It's him," she whispered to herself.
It had to be him.
But why hadn't he said so?
Why now?
---
That night, back in her dorm, she opened her email and found a message waiting in her inbox.
From: [Anonymous]
Subject: I kept my promise.
Message: "I lived. Now it's your turn to heal me. — A."
Her hands trembled.
A single tear slipped down her cheek.
He was alive.
And he had come to her.
But she didn't know if this was the beginning of a miracle — or the continuation of a curse.