The Law Enforcement Hall was unlike any other building in Arcade Academy.

Where the training grounds roared with youthful energy and the dormitories buzzed with chatter, this place was carved out of stone older than the Academy itself.

Its walls were black, polished until they gleamed like obsidian, traced with silver runes that shimmered faintly even in the dim light.

The sigils weren't decorative; they were wards, written in blood and battlefields, relics from the Alliance's war against the Demon Army centuries ago.

Few students ever came here willingly.

The Hall was where the Academy's mask of youth slipped away, replaced by the grim face of order. Retired hunters patrolled its corridors, their uniforms stiff, their eyes sharper than any professor's.

They walked with quiet steps, but every scar on their bodies told a story of survival. Most were B to A-rank veterans who had given their blood and bones for the Alliance.

They had traded battlefields for marble corridors, but their presence alone warned: this is not a place for games.

And then there were the three S-rank Hunters.

Legends in their own right, they carried authority second only to the Principal and Vice-Principal.

In this Hall, their word was law. If the Academy was a nation unto itself, then these three were its judges: unyielding, impartial, merciless. Nobles, commoners, even instructors all bent before the weight of their authority.

The building's very air was heavy, as if carrying the echoes of verdicts delivered and fates sealed.

---

[Law Enforcement Inspector Office]

Knock~

Knock~

A young soldier stood stiffly outside a tall office door, its brass handle gleaming under the hallway's lantern light. His knuckles had barely brushed the surface, but to him, it felt like hammering against the gates of judgment itself.

From within came a voice deep, commanding, like steel dragged across stone.

"Come in."

The soldier inhaled sharply, straightened his back, and pushed the door open.

The office beyond was not lavish, but everything in it radiated discipline.

Books lined the shelves in rows, each volume marked with precise catalog numbers.

Maps of battlefronts some long since resolved, others still active hung framed on the walls. There is a faint scent of polished leather and old ink fills the air.

At the center sat a man behind a desk of dark oak.

He wore the crisp navy-blue military uniform of the Law Enforcement Hall, the fabric ironed to perfection. Pinned to his chest were rows of medals six in total, each one gleaming faintly under the lantern light.

To anyone untrained, they were just decorations. To a hunter, they were stories. Campaigns fought, victories earned, comrades lost.

His hair was black with streaks of gray at the temples, combed back in neat order. His jaw was square, his posture rigid, his eyes sharp enough to pin the soldier to the spot the moment their gazes met.

Inspector Gileard Zacron.

Age: one hundred and eight.

Rank: S.

Status: retired frontline hunter, crippled by an injury that left him unable to sustain mana for more than five minutes.

Yet even bound by limitation, the weight of his presence made the air heavy. Many said that even wounded, he could kill most nobles in this Academy with nothing more than instinct.

The soldier approached the desk and set down a file. Its cover bore the crimson seal of a formal grievance.

Gileard's eyes flicked down. His voice was steady, but there was a trace of curiosity.

"…Complaint?"

"Yes, sir."

He leaned forward, opened the file lazily and when see the content then he paused. His expression shifted as facial muscles of his jaw tightened.

"Why are you handling this for me?" His voice hardened, like a blade scraping from its sheath. "Complaints of student squabbles go to the lower desks."

The soldier's throat bobbed. He forced his voice steady, though it came out too fast.

"Sir… because this complaint is against the Chief of the Disciplinary Committee."

The room fell silent.

The faint ticking of the wall clock filled the void. Dust motes drifted through the shafts of lantern light, unhurried, as if even they knew better than to disturb the inspector's silence.

For the first time in decades of service, Gileard Zacron felt his brow crease in genuine intrigue.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned the page and began to read.

The table showed signs of crackling faintly as Gileard Zacron flipped another page of the complaint file. His fingers, long scarred and calloused, were steady. He had seen thousands of reports in his lifetime, disciplinary notes, tribunal hearings, formal grievances scrawled by nobles who couldn't stomach losing a duel.

But today's one was different.

The moment his eyes skimmed the header, a faint itch of unease sparked in the back of his mind.

Complaint Filed Against: Chief of Disciplinary Committee.

Accusation: Extortion, illegal protection fees, abuse of authority.

His lips pressed into a flat line.

The soldier before him stood rigid, every muscle locked. Beads of sweat rolled down the man's temple, dripping onto his collar. It wasn't fear of Gileard's aura alone. It was the weight of the file itself.

Gileard closed it for a moment, tapping the leather cover with one finger. His eyes lifted slowly, pinning the soldier like a hawk to prey.

"…So. Which noble brat has gotten himself caught this time?"

His voice was calm, measured, but the undertone was steel. "Lionheart? Stormfang? Perhaps one of the Crimson lines?"

The soldier blinked, caught off guard. "N-no, sir. Not a noble."

For a heartbeat, silence. Then the air in the office shifted—like a stormfront rolling in from nowhere.

Gileard leaned back in his chair. His pupils narrowed slightly. "Not… a noble?"

The soldier swallowed. "Correct, sir. The Chief of the Disciplinary Committee is not a noble, nor a scion of any Great Family."

The inspector's aura stirred. Not fully unleashed, but enough to change the very pressure in the room. Books on the shelves rustled, a pen trembled in its stand, and the soldier's legs shook under the invisible weight.

Gileard's voice lowered, every syllable heavy.

"Soldier. I will ask again."

He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped like a judge leaning over the condemned.

"Did you just say the Chief of the Disciplinary Committee is one of the most powerful student positions in this Academy? It is not of noble blood? Then Who is it?"

The soldier's throat clicked as he forced the words out. "Y-yes, sir. He's… a commoner."

The moment the words left his lips, the crushing aura vanished, dissipating like smoke in the wind as the pressure lifted, and the soldier collapsed onto one knee, sucking in a ragged breath.

He coughed once, clutching his chest of the pressure for more than ten seconds under that weight then his ribs might have cracked and have internal injury.

Gileard, however, didn't even blink. His eyes were distant, thoughtful.

A commoner…?

---

In all his decades at the Academy, he had seen political tides shift countless times. Nobles quarreled, formed factions, split into rivalries, even dragged instructors into their games. But through it all, the structure remained unchanged.

Positions of power—Student Council President, Union Representatives, and above all, the Disciplinary Committee Chief position were always nobles.

It was an unspoken law.

The Academy prided itself on equality of opportunity, but everyone with half a brain knew that bloodlines ruled behind the curtains.

The noble houses used the Academy as a chessboard, moving their heirs and protégés to secure influence.

For a commoner to hold one of those chairs… was nothing short of revolutionary.

---

"Who?" Gileard's voice cut like a knife.

The soldier snapped to attention, still shaking. "First-year student and his name: Michael Wilson, now the Chief of the Disciplinary Committee."

The inspector's brow furrowed. "Wilson… I've heard this name before."

The soldier nodded quickly. "Sir, this is the same student who made that speech during the entrance ceremony. The one who, ah, declared he'd break down noble privilege."

For a brief moment, the corner of Gileard's lip twitched. Not quite a smile—more the faint shadow of amusement.

"…Arrogant brat." His mutter was almost fond, though his eyes remained sharp. "So that's the kind of storm you've been stirring."

He leaned back, tapping the file against his desk thoughtfully.

A commoner, making grand speeches against nobles. Rising to Chief of the Disciplinary Committee in less than half a year. And now… being accused of extortion.

It smelled of politics.

It reeked of it.

---

The soldier shifted nervously.

"Sir… what should we do with the complaint?"

"Dismiss it." Gileard's reply was instant, sharp as commanding

"Tell them we found nothing."

The soldier froze then refuted Gileard suggestions

"W-we can't, sir."

Gileard's eyes narrowed.

"You dare argue with me?"

The soldier flinched.

"Forgive me, sir! But—this petition bears the signatures of three instructors. We… we cannot simply discard it."

The office fell quiet again as Gileard drummed his fingers on the desk, the sound echoing in the silence.

'Why are Instructors… meddling in noble personal affairs? That will change the Academy structure of policies'

"Three of them, what do they say in it?"

"Yes, sir and… they requested Michael Wilson's immediate arrest."

"…Tch." The inspector's jaw tightened as even in his years of battlefield politics, rarely had he seen instructors stick their necks this far out.

If it had only been students, he would have buried the complaint because nobles crying foul was nothing new to him . But now with instructors signing, the issue was anchored that he couldn't be swept aside without consequence.

"Do they have evidence?" Gileard asked finally.

The soldier hesitated, then produced another sheet from the file. He laid it on the desk carefully, as if it were a cursed artifact.

"Yes, sir, these are the Bank statements. The complainants allege Michael Wilson demanded payment under the guise of 'protection fees.' and with corresponding transaction receipts from the victim students."

Gileard scanned the document, his sharp eyes picking apart the numbers. The account listed was real but just then he saw the transfers record as his brow furrowed.

"This account… it isn't linked to the Academy's system."

The soldier nodded grimly.

"Yes, sir."

"It's a secondary account that was closed two years ago but then suddenly reopened—conveniently, just after Michael Wilson assumed the position of Chief."

The inspector's fingers stilled on the page.

The pattern was too neat.

Too perfect.

If true, it was damning but If it is false, it was a masterful framing scheme.

Either way… someone had laid a trap.

---

The soldier cleared his throat nervously.

"Sir… with evidence and witnesses, we can't ignore this complaint."

Gileard closed the file with a decisive snap.

His gaze drifted to the ceiling, where faint cracks in the plaster stretched like spiderwebs. His eyes, sharp and weary, softened for a fleeting moment.

This boy…

He remembered his own youth, fighting tooth and nail against noble expectations, earning rank after rank not through pedigree but sheer bloodshed. He remembered the sneers, the politics, the battles fought both on the field and in the halls of power.

And now, this Michael Wilson had walked into the same storm.

A commoner daring to hold the reins of power. Of course the nobles—and their loyal instructors—would bite back.

---

Finally, Gileard spoke, his voice low but firm.

"Prepare the formal process. Evidence, testimonies, hearings. If this boy is guilty, we will see it proven. If he is innocent…"

His eyes glinted like steel.

"…then let us see if he has the strength to fight back."

The soldier blinked. "Sir?"

"I will take personal charge of this investigation and judgment," Gileard declared. His tone left no room for

objection.

"Tell the others to also make the announcements."

The soldier saluted sharply, though his hands still shook.

"Y-yes, sir!"

He turned on his heel and marched out, leaving the office door to creak shut behind him.

Gileard remained seated, the file resting against his palm. His eyes had grown distant, searching the ceiling as though answers might be hidden in the cracks.

For decades, the Academy had been stagnant, its politics a closed loop, its positions predictable, its noble heirs untouchable.

But now…

Now, a single commoner had upended the system.

The inspector's lips curved faintly, just enough to hint at something between curiosity and challenge.

Michael Wilson. Let us see if you can defend yourself. If you can turn the law of this Academy against its own corruption… then perhaps you are worth my support.

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

Show me, boy. Push back against the tide. Show me the will to cut through this rigged game.

The ticking clock filled the silence.

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