The class eventually came to an end.
The instructor departed, and the rigid atmosphere dissolved into scattered conversations. Students discussed techniques, speculated about the competition, or boasted quietly about their prospects.
Serik remained asleep.
It was Mila who woke him.
She hesitated before reaching out, fingers brushing lightly against his sleeve. When his eyes opened, still calm, still unreadable, she froze—cheeks flushed, heart racing.
"S-Serik… class is over," she said softly.
She had chosen this Aspect for one reason alone.
Him.
Not lineage. Not prestige. Her parents were irrelevant—she was an orphan, like many others. With no expectations placed upon her and no inheritance to uphold, she had followed the only constant in her life.
Serik.
She believed that staying close to him—learning what he learned, walking the same path—was enough.
Serik sat up slowly, expression unchanged. Polite. Distant.
He thanked her with a small nod.
To Mila, it meant everything.
To Serik, it meant nothing.
Not because he despised her—but because attachments were luxuries forged in peaceful worlds. And peace had abandoned him three hundred years ago.
He stood, already disengaged, mind elsewhere.
Mila watched him go, unaware that the person she admired was no longer capable of being what she hoped for.
At that moment, another student stepped forward.
He was tall, well-built, and dressed far better than most—insignia stitched neatly into his uniform, confidence bordering on entitlement. His gaze swept over Serik with open disdain.
"Hmph."
So the rumors were true.
"The popular orphan," he said loudly, arms crossed. "Sleeping through the entire class already. With that kind of lazy attitude, I wonder how useful you'll be when you're working under me in the future."
The implication was clear.
Under me.
A few students turned. Then more.
Whispers spread quickly.
"Oh? Is that a challenge?""No way—already?""This is the first one since classes started two months ago."
Excitement crackled through the room. Students rose from their seats, forming a loose circle. Some were eager. Others curious. A fight this early—especially involving Serik—was entertainment they hadn't expected.
Mila stiffened, fingers tightening at her side.
Serik, however, did not react.
He simply looked at the boy.
Not with anger.Not with pride.
With mild curiosity—like one might regard an insect that had crawled somewhere it did not belong.
The silence stretched.
And for reasons he couldn't explain, the arrogant student felt a sudden, inexplicable pressure settle in his chest.
Serik still hadn't spoken.
He neither answered nor looked away.
The silence gnawed at the boy's pride.
"Tsk."
Annoyed, he took another step forward, chin lifting as if the room itself owed him acknowledgment.
"Who do you think you're looking at like that?" he snapped. "Do you even know who I am?"
The murmurs quieted.
"I am the second son of the Tharos Tribe leader."
The name landed with weight.
Tharos.
A dominant tribe. Old blood. Authority backed by Essence and generations of power. Several students stiffened instinctively, their expressions shifting from curiosity to caution.
That name was not spoken lightly.
The boy's posture straightened, confidence reinforced by the reaction around him.
"I suggest you remember your place," he continued coldly. "People like you exist to serve paths like mine."
Mila's breath caught.
Serik finally blinked.
Not in fear.Not in anger.
In recognition.
Ah.
So that's the lineage.
And for the first time since the confrontation began, something subtle changed.
The air didn't grow heavier.
It grew still.
Serik finally moved.
He stepped forward until he stood directly in front of the boy, close enough that their shadows overlapped.
Then he spoke—his first words since the confrontation began.
"Do you know where the restroom is?"
The room froze.
Serik tilted his head slightly, expression calm, almost thoughtful.
"I'm in a bit of an urgent situation," he continued evenly. "Your father helped establish this academy, didn't he? You should know the layout better than most."
A pause.
"So," he added, eyes steady, voice polite,"where can I find it?"
Silence detonated across the classroom.
A few students stared in disbelief. Others choked back laughter. Some didn't dare breathe at all.
The Tharos heir stood stiff, his status—his name, his authority—reduced to background noise by a single, casual question.
He hadn't been challenged.
He had been dismissed.
And that was worse.
By then, the other classes had ended as well.
Students spilled into the corridors, drawn by the noise, the tension, the promise of conflict. Word spread quickly—a Tharos heir, a confrontation, an Essence clash waiting to happen. More bodies gathered, forming a widening ring of anticipation.
The second son of Tharos was trembling.
Not with fear—with fury.
His breath came heavy, Essence roiling beneath his skin. Hatred burned openly in his eyes as he prepared to put the insolent orphan back in his place.
Then—
The atmosphere shifted.
Footsteps.
Light, unhurried.
The noise faltered as heads turned instinctively toward the doorway.
A girl entered.
Black hair flowed down her back like ink spilled across silk. Her eyes—dark, abyssal, impossibly deep—seemed to swallow attention rather than reflect it. Her beauty was not loud or ornamental.
It was wrong.
Unreal. Disquieting. The kind that made people hesitate, unsure why their breath had caught.
She wore a plain white robe. No jewels. No insignia. No marks of status or wealth.
And yet, the moment she stepped inside, everything else lost relevance.
The murmurs died.The circle loosened.Even the Tharos heir faltered mid-breath.
She looked like a goddess who had wandered into a place she did not belong—
—or perhaps one who had always belonged, and everyone else had simply forgotten.
Rhea had arrived.