Chapter 9 – Academy (1)
When my feet touched the soil in front of the Academy, I finally saw it with my own eyes again.
The grandeur.
Layered stone walls, white and gray, rose high enough to cast long shadows over the polished plaza. Banners of deep midnight blue and gold bearing the Argent Crown's crest and the Academy's own sigil fluttered in the cold air, held up by spears that hummed faintly with enchantments. The main gate wasn't just wood and iron—it was a massive arch lined with floating runes, glowing faintly as every student passed through, scanning, measuring, judging.
Beyond the gate, towers pierced the sky like clustered spears. Some were straight and clean, clearly dedicated to martial training; others spiraled with strange, angular extensions, where mana formations clung to the stone like glowing veins. At the highest points, crystal arrays rotated slowly, reflecting sunlight into shifting patterns over the courtyard.
The Academy was less a school and more a fortress of knowledge and power.
I walked beside Alice toward the common auditorium where all new students were supposed to gather. The crowd was already thick—students in uniform filling the broad marble steps and the open square leading to a massive hall with domed ceilings and tall glass windows.
Hundreds of them.
A hundred? No, easily three hundred… maybe more. Hard to tell when the Academy was this big and the sea of uniforms this dense.
Midnight blue coats marked the nobles. The boys wore fitted long coats with pale trousers tucked neatly into polished black boots, gold-thread trim catching the light at the cuffs and collar. The noble girls wore the same midnight blue in a different cut—high-collared black shirts and dark vests under short shoulder-capes, heavy skirts falling to mid-calf and swaying around their boots, silver buttons and gold-stitched crests winking whenever they moved. Every one of them had at least one attendant at their side—maids, butlers, or guards in discreet livery. My own maid stood a half-step behind me, matching my pace without drawing attention.
Then there were the others.
Red uniforms.
Commoners.
Their coats and capes followed the same patterns as the nobles', but the cloth was rougher, the red a little duller. Brass buttons instead of silver. Crests stitched in simple thread instead of gold. The boys' trousers were plain dark cloth above scuffed boots; the girls' skirts hung a little stiffer, less fabric in the folds, capes patched where nobles would have replaced them. They had no attendants, no maids. Some stood stiff and nervous alone, clutching worn bags. Others gathered in small clusters, eyes wary as nobles glanced their way with open disdain or veiled amusement. There weren't many of them—a handful compared to the ocean of blue.
In theory, the Academy "did not discriminate." Scholarships, merit-based admission, equal access to resources.
In theory.
In reality, this world didn't change just because someone wrote pretty words on parchment.
No matter how talented a commoner was, most nobles would still look down on them. Ostracize them. Stifle them if they showed too much promise. Especially those from houses clinging to power by tradition and bloodline.
As we approached the auditorium entrance, the buzz of conversation shifted.
Laughter. A sharp cry. Movement in the crowd.
A commotion.
"Pl-Please let go of my hair…"
A girl's voice, high and pained.
"How dare a commoner like you look at me like that, huh?" another voice snapped, dripping with arrogance.
Even though it was faint under the noise of the crowd, I heard it clearly.
Of course I did.
I slowed, then turned my head toward the source.
"Alice," I said quietly. "Wait here."
"Understood, young master," she replied, stepping neatly to the side, claiming a bit of wall as our "spot."
I moved.
Through bodies. Through whispers. I pushed aside students who didn't move fast enough, ignoring their glares. The closer I got, the more obvious the circle became—a ring of students forming a boundary, some watching with interest, others with boredom, none stepping in.
In the center of that circle were two people.
A girl in red—small, swallowed by a slightly faded but clean commoner uniform—had her hair yanked harshly backward by another girl in midnight blue. The red capelet over her shoulders hung crooked where it had been grabbed, and her dark skirt twisted around her knees. Her red hair was braided tight under the collar, though a few strands had been pulled loose and clung to her cheeks. Blue eyes, bright with pain and shock, stared at the ground as if she could sink into it if she just looked hard enough.
The noble girl's expression was twisted in annoyance, lips curled as if she'd stepped in something disgusting. Her own midnight-blue uniform looked like the image from a recruitment poster—cape sitting perfectly on her shoulders, skirt falling in heavy, neat folds, the gold-thread crest on her left side gleaming in the light.
"HEY. STOP."
My voice cut across the noise, sharper than I intended.
Heads turned.
The noble girl holding the other's hair paused and looked at me, eyes narrowing.
"Hmm? And who are you supposed to be?" she asked, voice light but tinged with irritation at being interrupted.
I met her gaze without flinching.
"I am Viscount Erynd Milton," I said, my tone flat. "Of House Milton."
There was a ripple in the crowd.
"Viscount…?"
"Milton? The border house?"
"Isn't that the one always on the front lines?"
Just a few whispers, but enough.
The noble girl stared at me for a second.
Then she laughed.
"A viscount, is it?" she said, clearly amused. "Do you not know who I am?"
Of course I knew.
That hair, that face, that expression that always screamed entitlement. Much younger than the version I remembered, but still unmistakable in that flawless uniform with its perfect gold trim.
Tamara.
Duke's daughter.
Arrogant, petty, cruel. The kind of noble who thought her name alone was a pass to do anything. In my previous life, she'd ended up backstabbed by her own younger brother in a wonderfully ironic twist of succession politics.
Very funny cliché.
"I don't care who you are," I said. "Right now, we are in the Academy. This behavior is unacceptable."
The moment the words left my mouth, the air shifted.
Tamara's smile vanished.
There was a split-second of stillness.
Then—
*Smack.*
Something struck my cheek.
Not hard enough to hurt much, but sharp enough to ring.
A glove.
Thin, embroidered, scented faintly with some expensive perfume. It bounced off my face and dropped to the ground between us.
The crowd sucked in a quiet breath.
I knew that feeling all too well.
A challenge.
Formal. Public. Noble.
Tamara's eyes shone with cold amusement.
"How brave," she said softly. "A mere viscount daring to lecture a duke's daughter about 'acceptable behavior' in front of everyone."
She released the commoner girl's hair. The girl staggered, clutching at her head, eyes wide and scared, red cape slipping off one shoulder, but Tamara didn't spare her another glance.
Her full attention was on me now.
"Pick it up," she said, chin tilted slightly toward the glove at my feet. "Or walk away and apologize. If you walk away now, I might consider forgetting this little… disrespect."
The students around us watched in silence.
Nobles smirked, curious to see how far I'd go. Some commoners looked away, used to seeing these games end badly for their kind.
I looked down at the glove.
Then back up at Tamara.
"No," I said.
I stepped on the glove instead, grinding my heel on it just enough to make the fabric twist.
"You hit my face," I continued calmly. "That's not something I accept, duke's daughter or not."
Her eyes flashed.
"So you're accepting the duel, then," she said, voice low.
"Of course," I replied.
I smiled. Not kindly.
"Since you decided to cause a scene as a mage," I added, "I'll answer you on those terms. Magic duel."
A few students shifted at that, glancing at Tamara.
She narrowed her eyes, then gave a sharp, dismissive snort.
"Fine by me," she said. "I'll enjoy teaching you the difference between a duke's bloodline and a border rat."
She turned away from me to address the nearest attendant, a boy in blue with a pin indicating he was a senior student.
"Have this recorded," she ordered. "Tamara von Hailbrecht, first-year of the Duke's house, challenges Erynd Milton, viscount's son, to a sanctioned duel. Magic or sword, his choice."
Her words echoed.
The senior student seemed a little nervous but nodded, already pulling out a small crystal slate and pressing his finger to it. The slate lit up with text as he began registering the duel into whatever system the Academy used to track these things.
I stepped forward, closing the distance just enough so she could hear me clearly without raising my voice.
"I'll take magic," I said. "No need to change the terms you picked."
Her lip curled.
"I hope you don't cry when you lose," she said.
"I hope you don't die when you do," I answered.
For a heartbeat, something flickered in her eyes—a brief crack in the arrogance. Annoyance? Discomfort? Hard to tell.
Then it was gone.
She spun on her heel, hair whipping behind her, cape flaring, and walked away with her small entourage, leaving the red-uniform girl still trembling in the center of the ring.
The crowd slowly began to break apart, whispers rising again.
"Duel already?"
"Viscount vs Duke's daughter…"
"Magic duel, he's insane…"
I ignored them and stepped toward the commoner girl.
"Are you hurt?" I asked.
She flinched, then shook her head quickly.
"N-No, my lord," she said. Her voice was quiet, but not completely broken. There was a small, stubborn spark in her blue eyes.
Good.
"Then stand up straight," I said. "You didn't do anything wrong."
She swallowed, nodded, and straightened her back with visible effort, the red cape settling more neatly over her shoulders.
I didn't ask her name.
Not yet.
Too early to decide who's what in this place.
I turned and started walking back toward where Alice waited.
The Academy's grand halls loomed above, banners and towers and enchanted lights making the whole place feel like the center of the world.
A duel on the first day.
A duke's daughter offended.
Fine.
Let it start with beatdown.