Lucien stood motionless as ten squires surrounded him, their blades drawn and locked into a cage of steel. Captain Draevin’s obsidian-coated arm still gripped his wrist, the stone cracking under the residual force Lucien had unleashed only moments earlier.

  For several long heartbeats, no one moved. Then Lucien inhaled—a slow, bored sound—as if he were being inconvenienced by a slight change in weather rather than the consequences of a murder attempt. He lifted his eyes, storm-grey and flat.

  “…My apologies, Captain.”

  It wasn't remorseful. It wasn't ashamed. It was a lazy formality, a gesture without an ounce of weight. The yard froze. Draevin’s jaw tightened enough to grind stone.

  “Your apology,” Draevin said, his voice dropping into a dangerous register, “sounds more like mockery, cadet.”

  Lucien blinked, shrugging just barely. “It was not my intention.”

  The air thickened. Even the wind seemed to step back. Draevin released Lucien’s wrist, only to slam both hands into the dirt. CRACK—CRACK—CRACK.

  Black obsidian erupted around Lucien’s legs, coiling upward like serpents forged from midnight. They locked around his shins, his knees, his waist, and finally his arms, until Lucien stood frozen in a full obsidian bind. He was immobilized, yet he still radiated an eerie, effortless poise.

  “Lucien D’Roselle,” Draevin’s voice rang across the yard, “you are hereby placed under immediate detention for violation of Academy Combat Code—Article One.”

  The students paled. Article One was reserved for the gravest offense: lethal intent toward another cadet.

  As the squires closed in, they stepped carefully, uneasy around the quiet lightning that still trembled beneath Lucien’s skin, flashing faintly like a predatory heartbeat.

  “Escort him,” Draevin ordered, “to the Academy prison.”

  Murmurs exploded like a burst dam. “The prison?” “Is that even allowed?” “He tried to kill someone—of course it’s allowed!”

  Ray sat on the ground, clutching his side and staring as Lucien was loaded with more obsidian restraints—torso, wrists, ankles, and even a heavy collar—until he looked more like a sealed artifact than a student. Lucien didn’t resist. He didn't blink. He simply looked forward, his expression unreadable… except for a faint curl of disappointment, as though frustrated that his prey had slipped just out of reach.

  As the procession marched toward the iron gate, Ray felt a cold sweat drench his spine. Lucien glanced back—only once. For a heartbeat, their eyes met, and the look was unmistakable: This is not over.

  Ray swallowed hard. “Why…” he whispered, his hands trembling, “…why is my life like this?”

  First, there was Rowen. The walking bruise dispenser. The guy who harassed Ray for reasons only the gods—and perhaps Elaine—knew. Rowen was a nuisance. He was a bully. He would hurt your pride, shove you in the dirt, and scream in your face. But Rowen wasn't evil. He didn't cross the line into the dark.

  But Lucien… Lucien was a weapon. He moved, fought, and thought like a killing machine. Today, in the instant Ray had shouted his ridiculous anime attack, Lucien had moved with one pure, final intention: to end him.

  Lucien didn’t scream or brag. He didn’t even hate Ray loudly. He was just… silent. Precise. Final. Lucien wanted him dead, and Ray had absolutely no idea why. The thought burrowed deep—cold, heavy, and terrifying. Rowen was a violent jerk. Lucien was a deliberate executioner.

  Captain Draevin stepped in front of him, obsidian flaking from his gauntlets. “Cadet Melborne,” he said, his eyes scanning Ray for hidden internal damage. “Are you alright?”

  Ray nodded vigorously, like a terrified chicken pecking grain. He was Lucien-just-tried-to-kill-me pale.

  “Good,” Draevin muttered. “Report to the infirmary.”

  Ray nodded again, his eyes unfocused, and wandered toward the medical wing like a ghost who’d missed his own funeral. Only when Ray had disappeared did Draevin turn back to the field. He cracked his neck, the sound like a gunshot.

  “WHAT ARE YOU ALL STARING AT?!” he roared. “I THOUGHT YOU LOT WERE BUSY BEARING EACH OTHER TO A PULP!”

  The trainees blinked in confusion. Then, out of nowhere, Rian—acting like a sneaky earth-gremlin—slid behind Rowen and punched him in the jaw with the force of a collapsing mountain.

  Rowen spun, arms flailing, and just like that, the free-for-all erupted again. Screams. Dust. Fists flying. Water mages shouting in panic. Squires sighing with the deadened patience of overworked babysitters.

  Draevin crossed his arms, nodding as chaos consumed the yard once more. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “Just beautiful.”

  The ceiling of the infirmary had never looked more beautiful. It was smooth, white, and unthreatening—entirely lacking in teenagers actively trying to murder him.

  Ray exhaled, the breath coming out shaky and thin. For once, he remembered exactly how he’d ended up here: Rowen’s insane fire-kick, the split-second decision to scream an anime attack name, punching Rowen into the middle of next week, and then...

  Lucien.

  Lucien’s face, inches from his own. Merciless. Lightning crackling lazily in his palm as if he had all the time in the world to decide which part of Ray to vaporize first.

  Ray swallowed. “Yeah,” he muttered to the empty air. “Yep. This checks out. Infirmary Arc, Part Three.”

  He gingerly touched his ribs. Everything still hurt, but in a familiar way—the standard, post-free-for-all suffering. It wasn't the I-almost-died-because-a-god-got-bored kind of pain. That was... progress?

  “Is this my life now?” he groaned. “Rotating between the training yard and the infirmary like a broken NPC?”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The faint scent of healing herbs drifted through the ward. Somewhere nearby, a water mage muttered sleepy chants. A scribe wrote something down in a bored monotone—probably Ray’s name, for the third time this week.

  “Third time,” Ray mumbled. “At this point, I should get a loyalty card. Ten concussions and the next healing is free.”

  He closed his eyes, but the moment the darkness took over, all he saw was lightning. Lucien’s lightning. His eyes. His intent. Ray shivered. “That guy is definitely going to kill me one day,” he whispered to the ceiling. “Probably by accident. Or on purpose. Honestly, both feel equally likely.”

  The door to the infirmary creaked open. Footsteps—soft, precise, and hauntingly familiar—crossed the threshold. Ray blinked, lifted his head, and felt a smile tug at his lips before he could stop it.

  “Elaine.”

  She stepped into the room, the afternoon sunlight catching on her silver-blonde hair. Her blue eyes scanned the space with that calm, calculating precision she carried like a second skin. For a moment, Ray forgot the pain. He forgot the lightning. He forgot everything.

  Then, someone else stepped in behind her.

  Tall. Impeccably dressed. Platinum-blonde hair reflecting like polished metal. Icy silver-grey eyes that looked both regal and profoundly unimpressed. Prince Cassian Draegor.

  Ray’s smile died a painful, embarrassing death.

  Elaine approached his bedside with composed concern. Cassian followed with all the presence of a judgmental statue carved by a sculptor who hated commoners.

  Ray swallowed hard. “Oh,” he croaked. “Uh… h-hi. Your… Shininess.”

  Cassian’s eyes sharpened like a blade being drawn from a scabbard. “It’s Highness.”

  A soft, melodic sound broke the tension. Elaine. She let out a tiny, delicate chuckle.

  Ray froze. He’d made her laugh. He actually made her laugh. Pride surged through him like a divine revelation. Cassian, meanwhile, grimaced as if Ray had personally offended the entire Draegor bloodline by breathing the same oxygen. Ray immediately wanted to crawl under the mattress and stay there until the next century.

  Elaine, serenely unbothered, brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and stepped closer to the bed. Her blue eyes swept over the bandages wrapped around his torso, then his arms, lingering on the faint burn marks on his shoulder.

  “We came to check on you,” she said softly. “The instructors said you suffered a significant impact.”

  Significant impact? Ray thought. I nearly got turned into a charcoal briquette. But hearing her voice—gentle, controlled, yet touched with real concern—softened the jagged edges of his nerves.

  Elaine stepped even closer, lowering her voice so only he could hear. “Ray… what exactly happened out there?”

  Her eyes held questions. And something heavier—something she wasn't saying.

  Behind her, Cassian crossed his arms, his expression carved from pure aristocratic disapproval. “From what I heard,” the Prince added dryly, “you also nearly died. Again.”

  Ray’s soul crumpled. “Can we pretend that’s not my official reputation?”

  “No,” Cassian replied flatly. “You’re fortunate Captain Draevin intervened when he did. Lightning to the chest is… typically fatal. Even for the 'stubborn' ones.”

  Ray winced. “Y-yeah… that tracks.”

  Elaine sighed, a delicate, exhausted exhale, though her eyes remained oddly warm as she looked at him. “Ray,” she asked again, her gaze locking onto his, “what happened?”

  Ray swallowed hard. He was lying in the infirmary, Elaine was standing over him, and her impossibly handsome "prince-shadow" was looming in the background. And the last thing he remembered was a monster trying to erase him.

  This was going to be an awkward conversation.

  “So you are saying he attacked you immediately after you defeated this… Rowan fellow?”

  Elaine’s brows knit delicately as she uttered the name. Ray blinked. “Y-yeah,” he muttered. “Rowan fellow.”

  The fact that she phrased it like that—as if Rowen were some obscure footnote in a dusty textbook, a person who barely merited a mention—made Ray’s soul feel strangely nourished.

  Elaine sat in the chair beside his bed, her fingertips lightly pressed together in thought. Prince Cassian sat just behind her, angled in a way that let him stare at the back of her head with a longing so thinly veiled it was practically transparent. Ray felt a wave of secondhand awkwardness crawl up his spine, but he had bigger problems.

  Elaine finally looked up. “You said,” she began slowly, “that you named your attack.”

  Ray froze. Her head tilted, her blue eyes narrowing in a state of clinical confusion. “Why would you do that?”

  Ray opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Telling Elaine Avery—the calm, brilliant, and terrifying future of the Academy—that he had shouted a dramatic anime attack name because of childhood inspiration felt...

  Cringe. Life-ending. Mathematically impossible to survive.

  “I—I don’t know!” he lied, his voice reaching a pitch that only dogs could hear. “It just… came out!”

  Elaine blinked once. Her expression stayed perfectly neutral, but something in her eyes said: This explanation is insufficient.

  Cassian, meanwhile, looked like he was struggling against a powerful urge to laugh at Ray’s expense. Ray flailed, his hands gesturing wildly. “It—it’s a thing, okay?! A moment! A heat-of-battle instinct!”

  Elaine leaned closer, studying him with that surgical precision she used for ancient sigils. “Ray,” she said gently, “most people do not… shout the name of their strike before performing it. It telegraphs your movement. It's inefficient.”

  Ray wanted to curl into a ball and roll out the window. “I—well—maybe I’m just special?”

  Elaine didn’t blink. Cassian snorted. Ray died internally, his ghost already looking for a peaceful afterlife.

  Elaine sat back, still analyzing the "specimen" in the bed. “So,” she said, folding her hands neatly over her lap, “what did you name this attack?”

  Suddenly, Ray’s spirit flickered back to life. His spine straightened. His soul ignited. This was his moment. He drew in a dramatic breath, lifted one trembling, bandaged fist, and shouted with the unearned confidence of a man with nothing left to lose:

  “煙拳?バリアントストライク！！ — ENKEN: BARIANTO SUTORAIKU!!” (Smoke Fist Valiant Strike)

  The sound echoed off the infirmary walls like a war horn. Cassian flinched. The water mages in the next room probably dropped their vials.

  Elaine… Elaine just stared.

  Silent. Blinking. Processing.

  Then—deadpan and utterly baffled—she asked: “…What nonsense are you saying?”

  Ray deflated like a balloon that had been stepped on.

  Elaine continued, her voice caught somewhere between genuine confusion and deep concern for his mental health. “Is that… a real language? Did you invent syllables? Are you speaking in tongues, Ray? Did the impact cause an aphasia?”

  Ray’s face turned a shade of crimson that rivaled Rowen’s fire. “…Y-Yes,” he muttered, his shoulders curling inward. “All my attacks have their own… unique, one-of-a-kind names.”

  Elaine squinted at him as if he’d just confessed to eating rocks as a hobby. Cassian covered his mouth with a hand, a muscle in his cheek twitching violently as he suppressed a full-blown guffaw.

  “Ray…” Elaine leaned forward slightly. “You understand most knights don’t scream nonsese before punching someone, yes?”

  Ray buried his face in his pillow. “…I was caught in the moment.”

  Elaine stared at the back of his head for another long second. Then, quietly: “That wasn’t poetry. That was… noise.”

  Ray let out a strangled groan. Cassian finally cracked, a sharp, muffled laugh escaping him. Ray wished someone—anyone—would knock him out again so he wouldn’t have to explain that he had a whole list of even more embarrassing names waiting in his head.