Hearing Pete, the nobles shared knowing smiles.
Their work was done.
"The Academy isn't his domain," Pete finished. "Not while I'm here."
He turned to offer a hand to Princess Catherine — she hesitated, then stood on her own and left slowly, as she was aware of the intention of the nobles.
She didn't speak, but for the nobles watching… the scene was clear.
The Hero would stand against Ace. And the Princess would be caught in between.
The noble crowd buzzed like a well-dressed swarm.
False smiles.
Polished lies.
And in the midst of it all, Lucy Thornevale stood not far behind the Hero's circle — unnoticed, watching from the second row. Though seated among other ducal heirs and heiresses, her attention had never strayed far from the front row, especially from Pete and Catherine.
She had heard every word.
"She was forced into it."
"Even the Church was denied its Saint…"
"He executed his own kin…"
Lucy's fists clenched tightly in her lap.
She bit her lower lip, face pale.
But when she heard what came next… her breath hitched.
"Even his own sister—have you seen her?" one noble whispered loud enough to be heard.
"They say she was treated worse than a servant in the Thornevale estate. Starved, humiliated—made to clean her own room while Ace bathed in gold."
"And now she follows him like a beaten dog. That's the kind of monster we're dealing with."
Pete looked up, startled.
"...He did that to his own sister?"
The nobles nodded gravely, one even sighing.
"She's too broken to speak out. Poor girl. Living under a tyrant and now dragged into the Academy with him."
Pete's eyes darkened. That sense of justice — so deeply etched into his soul by divine choice — began to ignite.
He punishes the weak. Kills his own blood. Makes even the innocent bow...
This isn't just arrogance — it's evil.
Lucy didn't wait for more.
Her heart pounded.
She rose swiftly from her seat, nearly knocking over the chair, drawing a few curious glances as she turned and hurried out of the auditorium.
Her vision blurred slightly, not from tears — but from anger.
They're twisting everything…!
Ace didn't punish her. He protected her. He stood up for her when no one else did!
He gave her a name! A place!
She stormed down the hallway, footsteps echoing fast and frantic.
"They're turning the Hero against my brother" said lucy as she was running, "I have to warn him now"
And behind her, the nobles leaned in closer to Pete, like serpents coiling around their prey. Each word they spoke added weight to the chains of duty tightening around his sense of justice.
He clutched the holy sword beside him.
"I won't let him hurt anyone else," he muttered.
The midday sun filtered through the tall window of Ace's dormitory, casting long golden bars across the room's polished stone floor. He sat calmly in a carved chair, one leg crossed over the other, sipping from a porcelain cup.
Outside, the Academy gardens bloomed — roses, silver-lilies, and wind-blooms swaying gently in the breeze.
Ace's eyes, however, were distant.
In the novel… this was around the time the real Ace struck a Duke's son for just making eye contact with him. That was when the Hero tried to speak of justice…
He scoffed to himself.
'Justice without power is wishful thinking in a world like this.'
Just then—a knock.
He turned his head slightly. "Enter."
The door opened in haste, and Lucy stepped in, visibly rattled.
Her breathing was uneven, strands of her hair disheveled from running. Her hands trembled slightly as she clutched her skirt.
"Brother," she said, her voice strained. "Something happened… after you left the auditorium."
He set the teacup down, brows arching ever so slightly. "Oh?"
In quick, frantic words, she explained everything — the nobles surrounding Pete, their whispered accusations, the comments about Catherine being forced, and the final blow — the false claims of Lucy herself being treated like a slave under his roof.
Ace listened silently, leaning back, expression unreadable.
Then… he chuckled.
A low, amused sound.
"Let them be," he said, lifting the teacup with his usual elegance. "A bunch of soft-livered cowards playing knights in velvet. Let them bark — dogs always yap louder when they know who owns the road."
Lucy blinked, unsure if he was angry or amused.
"But Pete… he—he said he wouldn't let you do what you want. He's starting to see you as…"
"A villain?" Ace finished for her, smiling faintly.
He looked out the window again.
"Let them draw their blades of justice."
"I'll show them just how frail justice is without power."
On the opposite side of the dormitory wing, Princess Emilia Vel'Faera reclined on an elven-crafted chaise lounge, surrounded by pale silk curtains and glowing spirit lanterns. Her two elven maids stood nearby, brushing her silver-gold hair with combs carved from moonwood.
Her spirits hovered near the windowsill, whispering like the wind rustling through leaves.
The spirits, glowing with mana, told her of the nobles surrounding Pete, the accusations, the Hero's reaction, and the girl who fled in panic — Lucy.
Emilia remained silent for a long moment, processing.
They twist their own Hero like a puppet on strings... and I followed that bias too.
Her violet eyes narrowed.
But that sister… she ran to defend him, not away from him. She was not afraid of Ace — she feared what was coming for him.
She exhaled, the spirits swaying with her breath.
"Perhaps… I've misjudged him," Emilia murmured. "But if he's truly as dangerous as they say… I'll see it for myself."
She stood, brushing the hem of her emerald robes as she stepped toward the window.
Outside, far across the courtyard, she saw a lone figure sitting in shadow behind glass, sipping tea like royalty — a man who looked like he didn't belong to this world, yet commanded it.
The next day-
The sun cast a gentle golden hue across the Academy's inner gardens, bathing the marble paths and trimmed hedges in morning warmth. Mana-infused petals drifted lazily from blooming roses and whispering willows, creating an atmosphere of tranquility.
In this serene haven, one man walked alone.
Ace Thornevale, dressed in a fine black coat embroidered with crimson and gold threads with the sword in his hip— subtle, yet unmistakably aristocratic. His hands were tucked behind his back as he strolled with a deliberate grace, his golden eyes half-lidded, scanning the peaceful world around him as though it was beneath his interest.
Students dotted the garden in small clusters — laughing, talking, bonding.
But none approached Ace.
In fact, as he walked through the center path, nobles — even those from ducal families — shifted away, pretending to examine flowers or engage in fake conversation, just to create distance from him.
Even here, in broad daylight, he walked like a storm the skies hadn't dared to release yet.
And then they came.
The Three sons of dukes, the very ones who'd whispered poison into Hero Pete's ear the day before — stepped into his path. Their faces wore the same carefully constructed expressions: half-friendly, half-false humility. Their smiles were laced with honey and venom.
"Lord Thornevale," one of them greeted, his voice low and obsequious."We didn't get a chance to properly welcome you yesterday—"
Ace didn't stop walking.
Didn't even slow.
He walked right past them, his gaze never shifting, voice low but sharp enough to slice marble.
"Get lost. I don't talk to dogs."
The garden fell silent for a breath.
The words were simple.
But the tone was final.
The sons of dukes stood frozen in place, their fake smiles cracking as if they'd been slapped in public. One of them unconsciously took a step back. Another clenched his jaw, humiliated, his pride shriveling under the weight of Ace's disdain.
But none of them said a word.
None dared to.
They bowed stiffly and walked away — faces red with fury and shame, retreating like whipped dogs with golden collars.
"Who does he think he is…?" one muttered once they were out of earshot."We'll see how long he acts untouchable…"
"Let's see how the Hero likes hearing this…"
Their pride couldn't retaliate directly, but their mouths could still spread poison. And in a place like the Academy, rumors were knives—quiet, plentiful, and sharp.
But Ace… continued walking as if nothing had happened.
Other side of the garden,
Among the winding paths of roseglass trees and vine-covered stone, Emilia Vel'Faera moved with quiet grace.
Clad in flowing green silks threaded with silver, she was the picture of elven nobility — her every step deliberate, her presence serene. Around her floated three tiny spirits, nearly invisible to human eyes, flitting like petals caught in the wind.
But they were not serene.
They twitched and spun erratically, fluttering behind her shoulders instead of in front as usual — hesitant, even agitated.
They sense something.
Her narrowed violet eyes scanned ahead—
And then she saw him.
Ace Thornevale, strolling casually in her direction along the same garden path, hands behind his back, expression relaxed and aloof — as if the world could crumble and he'd sip tea amidst the ruins.
But her attention wasn't drawn to his presence alone.
It was the sword.
A weapon hung at his hip — black-sheathed, unassuming to the untrained eye… but to her? It was a wound on the world.
The moment she stepped within ten feet of him, she felt it: foul mana leaking in barely perceptible wisps. Thick and heavy, not like death, but corruption—something unnatural, something vile. Her spirits trembled, one hiding beneath her collar, another retreating behind her back entirely.
Her steps faltered slightly.
Her gaze sharpened.
That sword... it's demonic. And yet—he carries it like it's nothing.
In broad daylight.
In the Imperial Academy.
Surrounded by life… with no shame.
She hadn't meant to stop, but her body did. She stood silently on the side of the path as he approached, her jaw tight, breath shallow.
Ace, of course, noticed her — who wouldn't when someone standing right in front of you.
His silver white eyes flicked to her for the briefest second. And in that second… there was something intentionally unreadable in them.
He did not bow.
Did not greet her.
Simply passed with the same steady rhythm of his stride, like the presence of the elven princess was of no more consequence than the wind brushing his coat.
But as he passed her, she felt the weight of the sword's dark presence like a spike being driven into the heart of the garden.
'How can someone walk so casually while carrying something that vile?'
'Does he not feel it? Or does he simply not care?'
Even after he passed, her spirits remained disturbed.
Emilia exhaled slowly, the tension still coiled in her shoulders.
This isn't arrogance.
It's danger. Walking, breathing danger wrapped in nobility's cloth.
She turned to watch his retreating back, her lips pressed into a hard line.