Gwenna Stormveil approached with the quiet authority of someone used to commanding a battlefield. Surrounded by a few discreet attendants, she walked with a soldier's precision—each step measured, each movement sharp. She was dressed in a deep navy formal knight's uniform, silver-white cloak draped over her shoulders, and a sword still belted at her waist. She didn't need to draw it to make a statement—her presence alone was enough.
She looked like a blade still in its sheath—silent, but dangerous.
Damien stood at the entrance, smiling politely, arm extended in a gentleman's welcome.
"Lady Gwenna," he said smoothly, his tone warm, his posture impeccable, as if there had never been any tension between them.
Gwenna gave a small nod in return, but her eyes lingered for a moment on his shoulder.
A jet-black, one-eyed crow sat there, unnaturally still, its feathers too sleek, its gaze too intelligent.
She didn't ask. She just looked away and followed Damien into the manor without a word.
The silence between them stretched all the way to the meeting room.
Once inside, Damien gave a subtle glance to the servant at his side. The man bowed and quietly ushered the others out, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.
The room fell into a hush, broken only by the soft crackle of the fireplace and the unspoken tension between them.
Gwenna sat down, hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression calm and unreadable—like frost on steel.
"You received the offer from Arcanis Royal Academy?" she asked, straight to the point, her voice cool and devoid of emotion.
Damien tapped his fingers lightly on the table and nodded. "I did."
The air seemed to tighten.
Gwenna's expression didn't change, but Damien could feel her watching him—measuring him, trying to read something beneath the surface.
He sighed inwardly.
This woman… she was one of the most familiar and yet most enigmatic characters in the game.
Second daughter of House Stormveil. Guardian of the Northern Marches. The youngest commander of the Royal Knights.
And in the original storyline—the one he knew by heart—she was the one who eventually struck Damien down with her own blade.
They were engaged, yes. But they'd never been close.
And yet now, she'd stepped in to secure him a position at Arcanis. A prestigious one, no less.
He didn't understand her motives.
Was it duty? Political maneuvering? Or… something else?
He decided to test the waters.
With a flick of his wrist, five vials of crimson-red Healing Potion appeared on the table in front of her, lined up neatly.
"A token of thanks," he said. "For speaking on my behalf. Selene told me what you did. I don't like being in anyone's debt."
Gwenna glanced at the potions, her brow twitching ever so slightly—but she didn't reach for them.
Damien watched her, noting the pride in her posture, the way she held herself like someone who refused to be bought.
"These aren't low-grade," he added. "You can tell."
Still, she said nothing. Just turned her head slightly, lips pressed together, as if weighing something.
Then, finally, she spoke—quietly, but with steel in her voice.
"Is it true?" she asked. "At the banquet last night… did you really confess to the duke's daughter?"
Damien didn't answer right away.
Because he couldn't.
That hadn't been him.
That had been the original Damien—the one whose soul had already been swapped out. The one whose mess he now had to clean up.
Gwenna's eyes narrowed as the silence stretched. Her voice dropped, tight with restrained fury.
"Damien," she said through clenched teeth, "she's seventeen. And you—publicly—flirted with a minor?"
Damien: "…"
So the rumors had already made the rounds.
He knew Gwenna. She was a knight to her core—honorable, disciplined, and fiercely protective of the innocent.
She could tolerate a fiancé who didn't love her.
But she would never tolerate one who disgraced a young girl's name.
If he didn't handle this right, this could be the moment their already fragile relationship shattered completely.
"I don't like her," he said at last, voice calm but firm. "I have no interest in the duke's daughter."
Gwenna's eyes stayed locked on his, still burning with anger. "But the damage is done. Everyone's talking."
"I'll take care of it," Damien said. "I won't let it spiral."
He knew this wasn't just about his own reputation.
The Stormveil name was now tangled in this mess too.
Gwenna opened her mouth like she wanted to say more—but then she just sighed.
She stood, finally reaching out to gather the five potions from the table.
"If you get into trouble," she said, pausing at the door, "come to me. I'll help you."
With that, she turned and left, her cloak slicing through the air behind her like a blade.
Damien sat there for a long moment, exhaling slowly.
Vaelric hopped down from his shoulder onto the table, shaking out his feathers.
"Her eyes are terrifying," he muttered. "Like she could see straight through your soul. Good thing I'm just a harmless little crow."
Damien glanced at him, voice dry. "A one-eyed crow with god-tier mana and a superiority complex? Yeah, real harmless."
…
The next morning, sunlight spilled through the narrow windows of the high towers, casting golden streaks across the cobbled paths. Damien arrived at Arcanis Royal Academy right on time.
The most prestigious magical institution in the kingdom stood proudly on the northern highlands of the capital. Towering spires pierced the sky, and streams of arcane energy wove through the air like a living web—an ethereal cathedral suspended between reality and the arcane.
Damien stood before the academy's grand entrance, gazing up at the archway etched with ancient runes. For a moment, the real world blurred, and the familiar image from the game flickered in his mind.
He remembered this place.
In the game, this was sacred ground for Mage-class players—a hub for unlocking high-tier spells, discovering hidden quests, and triggering major storylines.
Especially the Tower of Trials—officially called the Arcane Spire.
He'd farmed XP there for hours, unlocked dozens of rare spells, and even triggered a few secret boss fights.
And now, he was walking back in—not as a student, not as a player—but as a professor.
Arcanis Royal Academy's student body was mostly made up of nobles—sons and daughters of dukes, counts, and wealthy merchant families. But there were exceptions: a handful of commoners with extraordinary magical talent, granted full scholarships in exchange for future service to the Crown.
A golden cage, but a gilded one nonetheless.
Damien held the appointment letter in his hand, the parchment still crisp from yesterday's signing. His official title: High Professor of Arcane Theory.
His first stop was the academy's central tower, where he met briefly with the headmaster.
The man was ancient—his beard nearly reached his waist—but his eyes were sharp, like a hawk that had seen too many winters and still wasn't done hunting.
"Lord Thornevale," the headmaster said, voice calm but firm, "since you've accepted the position, we expect you to teach our most advanced class. Prove your worth."
Damien nodded without hesitation, though he knew exactly what this was.
A test.
Sure, his appointment had the backing of both the Stormveil and Thornevale houses, but here at Arcanis, pedigree only got you through the door. Staying in the room? That took power.
After leaving the headmaster's office, he made his way toward the Arcane Spire.
The tower loomed above the rest of the academy, its surface covered in ancient runes and intricate carvings. Wisps of mana clouded the top like a halo, giving it the appearance of a structure that didn't quite belong in this world.
He approached the entrance and reached out to touch the shimmering blue barrier that guarded it.
[Identity confirmed. Welcome, Professor Damien, to the Arcane Spire.]
A swirl of black mist rose around him, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone—teleported inside.
"So this is what a proper teleportation array feels like," he murmured.
The interior of the tower was vast and bright. The walls were inlaid with glowing mana crystals, and rows of bookshelves stretched toward the ceiling in perfect symmetry. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, ink, and raw magic.
The floor was spotless—someone had clearly cleaned it just this morning.
"Not bad," Damien said under his breath, glancing around. "Looks like they treat their new professors pretty well."
...