The morning chill was beginning to seep into my bones. The sun was up, students were moving with purpose, and I was still a homeless guy on a bench, a fact that was rapidly losing its ironic charm.
My situation was a classic starting-zone problem. Level 1 character, no gear, no gold. And, thanks to a fresh hell of a memory download from the original Einz, a main quest with a deadline that wasn't just tight—it was a guillotine. The objective wasn't simply to 'survive the Semester Proving,' which was essentially the end-of-semester practical magic exam. Failure meant expulsion, which, according to a crystal-clear memory of his father's screaming face, would trigger the Velden family's 'disown the failure' clause. I'd be tossed to the bottom of society to live a life of miserable hardship. I didn't survive a ridiculous death just to get a second shot at being poor. I wanted a good life. My only starting gear for achieving that was a bizarre system that ran on a currency I had a lifetime of experience devaluing.
Affection.
I leaned back, watching the student body of Aurelia Magic Academy pass by. My path to survival required a strategy, and a strategy required understanding the terrain.
My supposed peers and the senior students were a non-starter. The original Einz had already thoroughly poisoned that well for me. To them, I wasn't an unknown quantity; I was 'Einz Velden, the Resonance Failure,' a walking cautionary tale. They moved in tight, guarded formations, their smiles were tools, and their emotions were assets they managed with careful calculation. To try and gain anything genuine from them would be an exercise in utter futility.
Then I saw them. A clean slate. A group of first-years, their nervous energy practically a beacon, clustered near the academy's main notice board. Their emotions weren't hidden behind layers of social and political calculations; they were an open book. They laughed too loudly, got flustered over simple compliments, and stared with open admiration at any display of magic. Crucially, they didn't know the name Einz Velden or the social poison attached to it. To them, I was just an upperclassman.
The choice was insultingly simple. Why waste energy on a fortified position that already viewed me with contempt, when there was open, undefended territory right in front of me?
My mind, finally clear, began to construct the strategy. The "meta."
The goal, then, was to get others to feed me that high-value resource called 'romance' and 'affection.' My personal disinterest in reciprocating was irrelevant. From my experience, romance was just a performance anyway; the only difference now was that I'd get paid for it in actual power. To generate that one-way flow of high-purity emotional resonance, I needed to target the most efficient source: the first-years. Their idealistic nature, their admiration for upperclassmen, their simple emotional responses—they were the perfect source for the powerful feelings I needed to farm. And their aesthetic—that earnest, un-cynical quality—had a simple, effective label.
Cute.
It wasn't about personal attraction. "Cute" was a tactical designation. It included their looks, of course. It meant approachable, idealistic, and brutally efficient. In a game where my survival depended on farming the most potent emotional energy, targeting the source that provided it most purely was the only logical path to victory.
A cold, analytical smile spread across my face. I finally had a plan. A name for my new operating philosophy.
Cute is Justice.
It was the winning strategy. The optimal path.
The exploit that would let me cheat this ridiculous system.
I stood up, brushing the morning dew from the stiff fabric of my borrowed academy uniform. My back ached from the bench, but my thoughts were sharp. My grand strategy for farming affection was useless if I looked and smelled like I'd slept on a bench. Objective number one was simple: find a place to stay. My eyes scanned the main notice board, skipping past club posters until they landed on a large, detailed map of the academy grounds. And there it was. A huge, green expanse bordering the eastern wall: the Practical Training Forest. A memory from the original Einz surfaced—without a dorm, the unspoken alternative was commuting from the nearby Velden family estate. The thought of returning to that suffocating house, of facing that family every single day, was a non-starter. That sprawling, dense wilderness would have to be my home for the semester. It was time to get to work.