The students' eyes were fixed on the Headmistress, who stood commanding the stage as she addressed them.
Most gasped in awe, their expressions a mix of fear and fascination.
Milosh sat stiffly, tension written clearly across his face.
Beyond the weight of the speech, he was struggling with the girl he'd always loved now sitting right beside him.
Oh god…
He fought to keep himself from losing composure.
And as the Headmistress's words settled, something shifted in the hall.
One by one, every student rose to their feet and began to clap.
The applause started quietly, then swelled, echoing to every corner of the grand auditorium.
A faint smile touched the Headmistress's lips as she observed them.
"This year, representatives of the Supreme Church have come to oversee the evaluation of our first-year students."
"Unlike previous years… we will be adding a secret additional challenge—after the three core trials that form the basis of your assessment—to truly determine your level."
"Let us welcome Sir Balfard, an elite member of the Royal Guard… the supervisor of this year's evaluation exams."
The applause subsided as the massive doors at the side of the auditorium swung open.
All eyes turned. A single figure stepped in, tall, broad-shouldered, clad in the immaculate silver-and-black armor of the Royal Guard.
Sir Balfard.
Even at a glance, it was clear this was no ordinary warrior. Every movement exuded precision and authority, as if the air itself bent slightly to follow his steps. His helmet, under one arm, revealed a chiseled face — sharp jawline, pale skin, eyes that could have frozen molten iron.
The students instinctively straightened, some whispering, others just staring, mouths agape.
Milosh felt a knot in his stomach tighten. Beside him, Loren's eyes narrowed, already analyzing every detail — posture, expression, even the subtle weight shift as Balfard's boots clicked on the polished floor.
The man didn't just walk; he commanded. Each step was measured, deliberate, the kind that made you think twice about stepping out of line.
Sir Balfard finally raised his gaze to the students, scanning them with an intensity that made a few turn their heads nervously.
"Good morning," he said, his voice low but cutting through the hall like a blade. "I am Sir Balfard, assigned by the Royal Guard to oversee your evaluations. I will expect precision, discipline, and… absolute dedication."
He let the pause hang in the air, letting it press down on every student like the weight of an iron gate.
His cold, piercing gaze didn't waver for a single moment.
For a brief instant, the two girls, Fiona and Lisa, moved directly behind him.
Before he looked back and nodded slightly toward her, prompting her to return the gesture with the faint, practiced smile etched across her youthful face.
Then, he quietly took the microphone and placed one gloved hand behind his back.
Stepping forward slightly on the stage, he opened his mouth slowly, his voice low yet resonant, strikingly solemn like the crack of a whip.
"The foundational doctrine of enduring defense, upheld since the very first glorious dawn of this nation, can be summed up in three words. You must engrave them in the deepest corner of your soul as a student here, as you would your own name…"
Almost every student knew the three words, yet under the crushing weight of this man's presence, none dared to disregard even the simplest one.
"Bow… Plow… Cut…"
"Loyalty, patience, and sacrifice… Here we speak them, yet understand them only partially. Harsh times forge the strong to bring peace… Peace comes to shape the weak, who in turn forge hard times…"
Even before life ever stirred in any corner of the world…
All moments were chaos, flowing with every wave across the globe…
From it, life emerged, and beneath the womb of suffering, the future was shaped, where your name, the names of your children, and your grandchildren were spoken…
As Loren ran a quick search on the internet for the most beautiful philosophical metaphors… she found this one and pasted it into the novel, heartlessly, without conscience.
Eleanor refocused once again, pulling herself out of her thoughts and concentrating on the words she already knew by heart, since she was the one who had written this dialogue.
"We were born in a time of wars and famines, whose drums echoed across every corner of this glorious nation… destroying, ravaging, displacing, and weakening everyone, making it difficult to rise again."
"Can't you tone it down a bit, man? Everyone already knows this… I don't know, I didn't really have ideas, so I just decided to fill the lines…"
"But we rose from the worst nights… and hoped that it would never happen again."
He paused, exhaling as he looked down, then lifted his gaze once more.
"You were born in peace… and peace produces the weak. Here, there will be no place for the weak."
"The people of Athena's Fortress are trapped, as you know, living in actual icy hell, under the wrath of the ice demons. There isn't a single place where someone hasn't been killed."
"So what is your role? To exist there defending yourself from the danger?"
"If neither I nor any of my comrades were there, fighting with our lives… would you have been born?"
He gripped the microphone tightly, his voice roughened to a pitch that could crush the mic itself.
"You are no better than those who have died… therefore, this year's tests will include the three sections in order."
Loyalty… first.
Patience… second.
Sacrifice… third.
"Each test will remain secret, even the final one…"
"Therefore, you will live through this testing period before the actual school year begins here."
Some of the smarter and wealthier students—and of course, the writer already knows this—
the second-year students have not yet arrived at the school. In other words, the academic year hasn't officially started.
Simply put, as a first-year student, your elimination is much easier…
It is written in pencil, easily erasable.
Loren felt a slight tension as she looked around.
The protagonist was beside her now—the body she had imagined, the absolute perfect outline…
The main driver of his story, the pioneer of his thoughts for a whole year… Loren now cursed those around him this way; otherwise, she might have preferred to get close to the protagonist and eventually become his friend.
They were almost the same person, following the same broad lines.
They shared the same interests as well… but in his current state, even with the soul of the protagonist changed and that already confirmed without the need for further proof, the situation was as clear as daylight…
This was just a body controlled by another foreign soul she didn't know.
She needed patience before even thinking about approaching or cooperating with him.
"Am I… a tsundere?"
He had been trying to sit next to her by every means just moments ago and felt a deep disappointment afterward…
But simply, after thinking it through, Loren harbored no romantic feelings for this person—even if he were the true protagonist, she had no love for him.
She knew she needed to make this person fall in love with her alone and never be part of a harem…
But she didn't know how to do that…
"Just let it unfold as it will… there's simply no hope."
She could only entrust the matter to her future self.