Michael's mood soured for the rest of the lesson, his thoughts tangled and unfocused. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't concentrate—not with the searing glare burning into the back of his head and the constant whispers rippling through the room.

He couldn't understand why he had reacted the way he did. Normally, he would have been more careful—measured. Perhaps he would've even tried to placate the aggressor, if only to deescalate the situation and avoid drawing attention. That was how he'd always handled things before.

But this time was different.

Not only had he refused to back down… he'd actively provoked the guy.

The introduction to ancient languages provided no relief from his thoughts. If anything, it made his frustration worse. The material turned out to be far more complex than he'd anticipated. According to Professor Gabe, there were more than ten recorded languages, yet none of the examples mentioned resembled the strange script on Michael's scrolls.

Of course it's not that easy… he thought bitterly, his emerald eyes dimming.

After the conversation with Magnus and the earlier clash with Troy, a deep sense of desperation gnawed at him. He needed to grow stronger—and fast. Power, status, influence… he needed them all. But in this academy, strength alone wasn't enough. To survive, he needed backing from a faction that even the Marbury and Bishop families would hesitate to provoke.

And yet Brian Winterborne's schemes had cornered him neatly. Thanks to the man's manipulation, the entire noble circle now believed he was engaged to Melody. That single rumor had made him a walking target. Worse still, the few factions who might have considered taking him in would now likely demand an outrageous price for their support.

I need the headmaster's backing, he decided, determination hardening within him. I might just have to take those pills…

Only by awakening the unique trait of his soul would he stand a chance at securing the headmaster's support—or at least, that's what the headmaster himself had implied.

But the thought filled Michael with unease. His hand drifted unconsciously toward his storage ring, where the small pill bottles rested. He remembered the way his soul had reacted when he first examined the pills, pulsing faintly as though calling to them. Every instinct told him they would be beneficial… yet he couldn't shake the fear of what might happen afterward.

The last time his soul had acted on its own, he'd lost control—completely.

And before even that, he'd used it to purify chaotic mana and to confront the foreign energy of the dead mage in the mana-scarred lands. The agony from that day was still burned into his memory, sharp and unforgiving. It loomed over him like a guillotine, threatening to drop at the slightest misstep.

I can't go through that again.

Professor Gabe's voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Well, that's all we have for today, class. Be sure to review the lesson contents on the network—we'll be diving into more complex discussions tomorrow." The man adjusted his half-moon glasses, his tone brisk but not unkind.

Michael seized the chance to escape. He pushed back his chair and stood swiftly, weaving through the aisles before anyone could stop him. The last thing he wanted was to give Troy an opening—to provoke him further or ambush him in the halls.

But as he turned toward the door, his gaze met Troy's. The boy was smiling—not with amusement, but with quiet satisfaction, as though savoring Michael's haste to avoid him.

A sharp flare of anger coursed through him, hot and bitter. His fists clenched reflexively, nails digging into his palms. For a brief moment, he considered confronting him right then and there… but he forced himself to turn on his heel and leave.

He'd talked a big game earlier, but in truth, the weight of yet another enemy pressing down on his shoulders was suffocating. His list of adversaries was growing faster than his strength—and that was a dangerous imbalance.

"I'll see you soon, commoner… very soon."

Troy's voice carried across the room, his snide laughter echoing above the murmurs of the class. He didn't seem to care that the professor was still present—or perhaps that was the point.

Michael didn't respond. Without so much as a glance back, he walked out of the classroom with quick, deliberate steps. His jaw tightened, and he forced the anger down, knowing this wasn't the time to lash out. He had already dug himself deep enough with his mouth.

Not that he would've let me off either way, he thought bitterly.

Michael understood how nobles like Troy operated. Bullies thrived on submission. Show them weakness, and they'd take it as an invitation to torment him relentlessly—turning him into their errand boy, their training dummy, or worse.

Still, a part of him wondered if it might have been better to just endure it quietly—for now, at least. At least until he learned more about the ancient pills in his possession and decided what to do next.

He moved through the corridors with his head slightly lowered, his thoughts spiraling as he mapped out his next steps. Now that his elective classes had started, there should be supplementary lessons available on the academy's network for review.

If I can identify the language closest to the one on my scrolls, I should be able to make faster progress, he reasoned, his hand unconsciously rising to his lips as he began biting his nails.

The bitter taste of skin snapped him out of his trance. Michael froze mid-step, forcing his hand back down.

A memory surfaced unbidden—his mother's gentle voice, soft but firm, scolding him for the thousandth time about the nervous habit. He could almost picture her warm smile as she ruffled his hair afterward, as if to soften the reprimand.

The ache in his chest tightened.

Even after three years, the memory of her was both a balm and a wound—helping him steady his thoughts while quietly reminding him of what he had lost.

By the time he surfaced from his reverie, he found himself standing in the academy's main hall. Students crowded the space, their voices overlapping in an indistinct hum as they hurried to their next classes.

Michael scanned the throng instinctively, a subtle tension coiling in his chest. Surrounded by unfamiliar faces, he felt strangely exposed. Vulnerable.

Then, finally, a familiar mop of unruly brown hair came into view.

Rudy stood a few paces away, his freckled face lit by the bright hall lamps, mouth stretched wide in a shameless yawn. His refreshed posture was so relaxed it almost radiated defiance, as if announcing to the world that he'd successfully slept through yet another class.

Michael stepped up beside him and jabbed an elbow lightly into his exposed ribs.

"So? How was inscriptions class?"

Rudy flinched, startled out of his daze before a crooked grin spread across his face.

"It was great! Best class I've ever attended~" he declared with exaggerated flair.

Michael raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

"In other words… you had a good nap?"

Rudy's grin widened into something almost mischievous. "Professor Torvin is nearsighted," he said with barely restrained glee. "The guy couldn't see me in the back row, sleeping soundly like a baby."

Michael chuckled despite himself, though a part of him knew laughing would only encourage Rudy's bad habits.

"So," Rudy said after a moment, tilting his head curiously, "how was ancient languages? I'm betting it was boring, right?"

"Well…" Michael hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. "I might've… messed up a little."

Rudy's interest sharpened immediately. Michael filled him in on the run-in with Troy Bishop—Randolph's older brother—and the sharp exchange of words that followed.

Just as expected, Rudy burst into laughter at his retorts, especially the one about Randolph's bladder. But the mirth faded quickly, replaced by a more serious expression Michael rarely saw from him.

"We should probably be careful from now on," Rudy said, his voice steady as he rested a hand on Michael's shoulder. "Try not to walk through the castle alone if you can help it. They'll be less likely to start something if I'm with you."

Michael blinked, momentarily taken aback by his friend's quiet resolve. A genuine smile formed, soft and unguarded.

"Thanks, man…" he said quietly, the words carrying more weight than he intended.

For the first time that day, the tension in his chest eased—if only a little.

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