Waking up was a special kind of agony. For a blissful, fleeting moment, I was just a consciousness adrift in the warm darkness of sleep. Then, reality crashed in. A low, full-body ache pulsed from a dozen places I didn't know could hurt. My muscles felt like frayed, over-stretched ropes. My palms were a raw, tender mess of broken blisters. Every inch of me screamed in protest as I forced myself to sit up.
The first rays of dawn were just slanting through the window, mocking me with their cheerful brightness. My night had just ended, and my day was already beginning. This was the price of my new ambition: a life lived in the margins of exhaustion, a constant war waged against my own physical limits.
I dragged myself to the wardrobe and began the painful process of dressing. Putting on the crisp academy uniform felt like putting on a suit of armor and a straitjacket all at once. It was the costume for my role, and it chafed against both my raw skin and my weary soul. I looked in the mirror and practiced the expression: a subtle lift of the chin, a slight sneer at the corner of the lips, a look of bored disdain in the eyes. The mask of Lucian Greyfall. It was getting easier to wear, and that terrified me.
As expected, Damien was waiting for me outside my room. He gave me a sweeping, critical look, his golden eyes lingering on the dark circles under mine. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face.
"You look dreadful, Lucian," he commented, his voice dripping with false concern. "Did my little lesson keep you awake? Perhaps you were up all night, replaying your failures."
His intent was a wave of smug satisfaction, and I felt it through my Soul Resonance like a physical slap. He wanted me to be cowed. He needed me to be weak.
I forced a scoff, turning my head away as if in irritation. "I was merely bored," I lied, the words feeling clumsy on my tongue. "Your predictable movements are hardly worth losing sleep over."
It was a classic Lucian response: pathetic, transparent bravado. It was exactly what he expected. He chuckled, a low, condescending sound. "Of course. Come along. It would be a shame to be late for Professor Gidean's lecture. I know how much you enjoy sleeping through his class."
He turned and walked, and I fell into my customary place a step behind him, the perfect shadow. The act was physically and mentally draining, a constant performance for an audience of one. Every instinct screamed at me to analyze his movements, to feel his intent, to learn. But I had to actively suppress it, to look bored, to slouch, to be the useless appendage he thought I was.
Our first class was Runic History and Theory. The lecture hall was filled with the low murmur of students settling in. Professor Gidean was a frail, elderly man with a passion for his subject that far outstripped his students' interest. The original Lucian would have been asleep within five minutes.
But as the Professor began his lecture, I found myself captivated. He was talking about Runic Decay—the phenomenon of even the most powerful, permanently-enchanted artifacts losing their potency over millennia.
"…many theories persist," he droned, his reedy voice barely carrying. "Some believe it is a flaw in the binding process, others that the mana source itself becomes 'stale.' But none have conclusively explained why a rune, a perfect, self-contained circuit of intent, should ever fail if its power source is constant."
While the other nobles around me were doodling or discreetly passing notes, my mind was racing. This wasn't just magic; it was a problem of information science. I had studied basic programming on Earth. A rune was like a piece of code, and the mana was its electricity. What if the problem wasn't the power?
Lost in my own thoughts, exhausted and with my guard down for just a second, I murmured my conclusion to myself, my voice barely a whisper. "It's not a power failure, it's a data failure. The informational matrix of the rune itself degrades. Like accumulating microscopic errors with each mana cycle until the core function is corrupted."
The lecture hall had fallen silent. I hadn't realized how quiet it had become. Professor Gidean had stopped speaking and was staring directly at me, his bushy white eyebrows raised in astonishment.
"Mr. Greyfall?" he squeaked. "Did you have something to add?"
Ice flooded my veins. Every eye in the room was on me. Damien's gaze was particularly sharp, his head tilted with a look of piercing, analytical curiosity. On the other side of the room, I saw Seraphina Vael lean forward slightly, her sapphire eyes wide with surprise. Next to her, even the hero, Leonidas, was looking at me with a baffled expression.
I had broken character. And I had done it in the worst possible way—by appearing intelligent.
"No, Professor," I said quickly, forcing a note of dismissive arrogance into my voice. "It was nothing. I must have been talking in my sleep."
A few students snickered, and the tension broke. But the Professor wouldn't let it go. "Nonsense, my boy! 'Informational matrix degradation'… a fascinating concept! An entirely novel approach! Where did you read of this?"
"I… I don't recall," I stammered, feeling my cheeks flush. "A book in my family's library, perhaps. It was just a passing thought." I slumped down in my seat, trying to appear as bored and foolish as possible, desperate to retreat back into the safety of my mask.
The professor, though disappointed, eventually continued his lecture, but the damage was done. For the rest of the class, I could feel the weight of Damien's gaze on me, no longer smug, but suspicious. I could feel the focused curiosity from Seraphina's direction. I had turned my spotlight from 'incompetent thug' to 'unpredictable variable,' and I wasn't sure which was more dangerous.
When the bell finally signaled the end of the class, I moved to exit quickly, wanting nothing more than to escape the suffocating attention. As I navigated the throng of students in the hallway, my tired mind misjudged the space. I bumped into someone, and the heavy Runic Theory textbook slipped from my grasp, landing on the floor with a loud thud.
Before I could even react, a hand reached down and picked it up. I looked up to see Leonidas val Aris holding the book out to me, his expression open and earnest.
"Here, you dropped this," he said, his voice friendly.
His intent, according to my Soul Resonance, was exactly what it appeared to be: simple, uncalculated kindness. But there was a layer of caution there, too. He was the hero; I was the villain's sidekick. We were on opposite sides of the board.
I had to play my part. I snatched the book from his hand, my lip curling into the familiar sneer.
"I don't need help from a commoner," I spat, the words tasting like poison. I shoved past him without another glance, the gesture deliberately rude.
Through my Soul Resonance, I felt the ripple of his reaction. His simple kindness soured into confusion, then hardened into a quiet, disappointed disdain. He had offered a hand, and I had slapped it away. I had successfully reinforced his perception of me as an arrogant noble brat.
I rejoined Damien's group, the mask firmly back in place. But as we walked away, I risked a glance over my shoulder. Leonidas was still standing there, watching me go. Seraphina had joined him, and they were speaking in low tones, their expressions thoughtful.
They weren't looking at me with simple hatred. They were looking at me as if I were a puzzle they couldn't solve.
I had survived the day, but my slip had created new complications. I had become an enigma. And in a story where everyone was supposed to play their part, the character who starts improvising is the first one to draw the author's wrath.