The audience of noble students whispered beneath their breath. Hushed but not hidden.
"That's the hero? A commoner."
"He's blessed by the goddess herself. Look at his eyes?"
"Still… no last name. A stray with a golden leash."
But their true venom reserved itself for someone else.
"Did you hear what Ace Thornevale did?"
"Executed his own stepmother. For writing a letter!"
"Withdrew troops from monster-infested lands — just because he didn't like his room."
"Children died that day. Whole villages…"
Even as their voices trembled at the power of House Thornevale, they found courage behind gossip.
Especially around Pete.
More than a few nobles leaned toward him in casual conversation — smiles, soft words, and carefully planted seeds.
"Just imagine, Hero… how many people would still be alive if he weren't so obsessed with his pride."
"You fight to protect innocents. He trades them for comfort."
"And you, born with nothing, will sit beside him who stains the name of nobles."
Pete sat silently, jaw tight.
He had heard the rumors before. But here… surrounded by elegance, honor, and legacy. He could feel the invisible weight of Ace's shadow pressing down on him.
His hand clenched the holy sword at his side.
Then… the side doors opened.
And silence swept the hall.
Ace Thornevale walked in, golden sunlight trailing behind him like a divine spotlight. Headmaster has already left as he is needed on the stage.
No sword at his side.
No servants in his wake.
But the weight of his presence made everyone avert their gazes.
His tailored uniform moved like silk. His gaze, cold and indifferent, flicked once toward the front row — then dismissed the entire audience like they were less than insects.
He didn't need to seek attention.
He was attention.
He moved past the rows of nobles, past gasps, past lingering resentment and awe alike, and finally took his place beside Pete without so much as a glance at him.
The holy sword hummed softly in response to Ace's nearness — as if acknowledging a threat.
Pete's eyes flicked toward Ace.
There was no malice on Ace's face. No emotion, even.
Just pride. A presence so unbending it could have been carved by goddess herself.
This is the man they call a monster?
Then why does he feel more like a king?
But Pete remembered the whispers.
He executes maids.
He let people die.
He thinks only of himself…
And in that moment, the first seed of resentment took root in the Hero's heart.
Elsewhere
From the second row, Lucy sat quietly among the ducal children.
She heard everything. Every lie. Every warped truth. Every whispered curse spoken by those who had never even seen the blade of sacrifice.
But her eyes never left Ace's back.
They don't understand him.
They fear what they cannot control…
Then suddenly with a Boom!
A burst of magic exploded mid-air into a dazzling swirl of mana particles, forming luminous streams of blue, green, and violet that rained down like stardust across the hall. The temperature shifted, and silence fell as all eyes turned toward the grand stage.
There, standing at the center of a summoning circle still glowing beneath his feet, was none other than:
Adalf Valmor, Headmaster of the Imperial Academy.
Supreme Mage.
Symbol of arcane supremacy for the Empire.
He raised a hand, and the falling mana light bent around him like a divine aurora.
"Welcome," he said, voice echoing in every corner of the hall, not through volume, but sheer mana resonance.
"You, noble sons and daughters, stand at the gates of your future — and the Empire's."
His robe rippled as he stepped forward, magic coiling gently around his feet.
"Among you sits one who appears every five centuries, chosen by the Goddess to lead the light — the Hero."
"One who will face the Demon King, fated to rise as balance demands."
His gaze fell on Pete, the Hero, sitting golden-haired and sword-bound.
Some students clapped. A few nobles raised hands in formal acknowledgment.
Pete bowed his head slightly, uncertain and humbled.
Valmor continued.
"And among us as well is one who stands as pride of the Verdant Realms, the jewel of the Elven Dominion — Princess Emilia Vel'Faera."
Emilia nodded with aristocratic grace, barely acknowledging the cheers.
"We are also honored by the presence of Her Highness, the Imperial Princess Catherine Solarian, whose light continues to grace this Empire."
Catherine offered a cold smile, her posture perfect — but her eyes briefly flicked toward Ace and then away, unreadable.
Then came a pause.
Just a moment.
And then:
"...And of course, we welcome the heir of House Thornevale, Lord Ace Thornevale, whose talents and legacy precede him."
No applause followed. Just silence.
Respectful.
Fearful.
A few students dared to glance at Ace.
He sat motionless, his face unreadable — the embodiment of a man who didn't care if his name was praised or feared, so long as it was acknowledged.
And it was.
Valmor continued the speech, speaking of unity, of hard work, of how the Academy was where future kings, generals, sages, and heroes are forged. But no matter how grand the words, the power dynamics were already laid bare.
And when he finally said:
"May this year shape the blades that defend the realm and the minds that guide it—"
The mana particles faded. The spell ended.
And Valmor stepped down from the stage.
No one moved.
Ace remained still. So did Pete, Emilia, and Catherine.
But in the hearts of the gathered students and nobles alike — the battle lines were already drawn.
And with this the entrance ceremony ended and students left for their rooms.
The nobles and students began murmuring and shifting in their seats.
But before anyone else could rise, two figures stood up simultaneously.
One was Ace Thornevale, his back straight, his expression unreadable. He turned without waiting for fanfare, gaze forward, and walked away with slow, purposeful steps. His cloak of black and crimson trailing behind him like a war banner.
The other was Princess Emilia Vel'Faera, her expression stiff and cold, the corners of her lips curled downward in restrained disdain. A faint, natural glow of mana surrounded her — not from her, but from the tiny spirits that floated beside her shoulders like translucent faeries that are only visible to people with high spirit affinity.
Each one was a different element — fire, water, wind, earth — all delicate and shimmering.
And all of them, without exception, kept a noticeable distance from Ace as he walked just ahead of their master.
The spirits suddenly felt something that discomforted them. one whispered softly.That discomfort was from Ace. Not exactly from him but something from deep in him.
Emilia's brows furrowed subtly as she walked behind Ace. Her sharp elven instincts, honed for centuries through her lineage, whispered warnings she couldn't explain. Her stomach twisted with a visceral unease, like walking beside an abyss disguised in noble clothing.
'He's just a human… but he doesn't feel like one, ' she thought. 'He reeks of mana, and something darker... yet I sense no spellwork on him.'
Still, she didn't say a word. Elves do not lower themselves to confront discomfort.
They simply kept their distance.
The dormitory building towered over the courtyard like a castle wing, elegant and exclusive. Only four rooms stood on this floor — each designed for a different pillar of power in the Academy.
Ace's footsteps echoed first as he reached the row of doors. The hallway was quiet — peaceful.
Until he noticed the door just beside his.
An elegant silver flower was engraved near the handle. Elven glyphs of warding were etched into the frame.
Huh…
He glanced once — just a flick of his eyes — and caught sight of Emilia now standing only a few feet away, facing her door with poised displeasure.
She paused as well, her eyes briefly flicking toward him.
The spirits near her hissed and fluttered, vanishing into her hair or clothes as if to hide.
"Unbelievable," she muttered, quiet enough that even Ace wouldn't hear.
Ace shrugged — completely unfazed. As if even fate placing the Elven Princess beside him was just an irrelevant inconvenience.
He opened his door and entered without hesitation.
Emilia stared at his door for just a second longer. Her narrowed violet eyes held a trace of confusion now, not just disgust.
'Why… does the air feel heavier when he's near? Why do the spirits retreat?'
She reached for her doorknob, expression unreadable.
He is dangerous… but not in the way humans understand.
Then, without another word, she too vanished into her room
After Ace and Emilia had already left, the auditorium began to bustle with activity. Nobles flooded toward the stage — not toward the Headmaster, who had already vanished, but toward the two remaining icons:
Pete, the golden-haired Hero, who sat with the holy sword resting beside him.
And Princess Catherine Solarian, sitting with her icy beauty a reflection of imperial blood.
Pete barely had time to react before a small group of well-dressed nobles — sons of dukes and marquises all gathered around them, bowing politely.
"Your Highness, Hero," one said smoothly. "An honor to share this moment with you both."
Pete, ever humble, and bewildered as a noble bowing to him only managed to nod.
Catherine gave a neutral glance.
But then the tones shifted.
"It must be difficult," said another, voice lowered in a conspiratorial whisper. "Being engaged… to someone like him."
Pete turned his head slightly, listening.
"The Thornevale heir. The one who executed his own stepmother and brothers. A man like that doesn't deserve you, Your Highness."
Still, Catherine said nothing. Her eyes focused forward, expression cold.
But Pete noticed her hand, perfectly gloved, tighten ever so slightly on the edge of her chair.
"Such cruelty, even toward his own blood," another noble added. "It's no wonder people fear him. Rumors say he even torture the commoners."
Pete's golden eyes narrowed.
"They say… you were forced into this arrangement, weren't you, Your Highness?" the final noble asked, louder this time. "That even the Church was denied its Saint… just to bind you to him?"
For a brief second — the barest flicker — Catherine's jaw clenched.
She didn't deny it.
She didn't confirm it either.
But for Pete, that was enough.
He looked at her — truly looked.
The way she held herself, unshaken but guarded. The way she refused to speak, not out of submission, but as though she was shielding her pride from shame.
She doesn't want this, he thought.She's a prisoner in silk and gold… and no one's doing anything about it.
Pete stood, causing the circle of nobles to step back with a mix of awe and curiosity. His hand rested on the hilt of the holy sword as if drawing resolve from it.
"I don't care about rank or reputation," Pete said calmly."If someone like Ace Thornevale thinks he can do whatever he wants here… he's mistaken."