The thing about narrowly avoiding public execution—I mean, dueling—is that the high only lasts so long. Like, five minutes. Ten, tops.
After that, the terror kicks back in.
Sylas (again, me) was still a walking target. Worse, my stunt had made me infamous.
By breakfast the next morning, I was known throughout the campus as:
1. "The Mana Bomb"
2."That One Vermund Kid Who Fakes Death to Win Duels"
3. And my personal favorite, "Pathetic But Bold."
Honestly? I could work with that.
"Don't look now," my roommate mumbled, stirring his suspiciously gray porridge, "but you've got three professors watching you like you're about to commit war crimes."
I looked.
He wasn't wrong.
At the far end of the hall, seated at the staff table, three faculty members were definitely staring. One had their hands clasped like they were praying for my redemption. Another was openly taking notes. And the last—a sharp-featured woman with a crow perched on her shoulder—smiled when I met her gaze.
"Is it weird that I feel like they're trying to dissect me with their minds?" I muttered.
"It's weird that you're surprised."
"You think it's the duel?"
"No," he said, dry. "I think it's your complete disregard for decorum, magical ethics, and mortality."
"I call it charisma."
"You should call it what it is—reckless, magical idiocy."
Which was fair. But also rude.
Still, I wasn't entirely without plans. I'd survived one encounter. And if I wanted to live long enough to graduate—or at least fake my death in style—I needed to get smart. Fast.
That meant two things:
1. Learn actual magic.
2. Make allies. Or bribe them. Or blackmail them. Whichever came first.
Enter: Professor Elohra Marrin.
She was the academy's chief instructor in Theoretical Spellcraft and Arcane Structuring, which sounded boring, and was boring… but also the only class where Sylas had ever scored above average.
Probably because the original Sylas had a knack for theory and no ability to cast anything without a meltdown.
Also because Professor Marrin loved underdogs. And by underdogs, I mean disasters.
Which I now qualified as.
I arrived early to her class, for once not being dragged in by magic cuffs or tripping over my own cloak. Progress.
The classroom was a wide, high-ceilinged dome with rotating glyphs carved into the walls. Desks were arranged in a spiral, and the professor stood at the center like some ancient wizard-priest about to start a cult sermon.
"Mr. Vermund," she said the moment I walked in.
I flinched. "Professor."
"You survived." She sounded faintly surprised.
"Rumors of my combustion were greatly exaggerated."
A pause. Then, to my shock, she… chuckled.
"My office," she said, gesturing behind her.
Crap.
I followed her, heart in my throat. Maybe she had seen through my stunt yesterday. Maybe I was about to be thrown out, turned into a frog, or—worst case—reassigned to a class with Caelan Dren.
The office was cluttered with scrolls, ink bottles, glowing orbs, and a singular cat napping in a heap of levitating quills.
Professor Marrin gestured for me to sit. "Relax. You're not in trouble."
I relaxed exactly zero percent.
"You're not a fool, Mr. Vermund," she said, fixing me with a hawk-like stare. "Just foolish."
"...Thanks?"
"You faked an arcane rupture diagnosis in public. That takes gall."
"It also takes desperation."
She nodded. "That, too. But it was clever. Terrible, but clever."
"Is this where you offer me secret tutoring in exchange for becoming your morally questionable apprentice?"
"No." She smiled. "This is where I tell you that if you're going to survive this academy, you need more than tricks. You need a theory foundation strong enough to weaponize your reputation."
That… actually sounded useful.
"So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying I'll take you under my wing. Quietly. If you're willing to actually study."
"…Will there be snacks?"
Her expression didn't change. But her eyes twinkled.
Back in the dorms, I had a new plan. A real plan.
No more just reacting to chaos. Time to get ahead of it.
Step 1: Train in theory. Learn spell roots. Understand glyph matrices.
Step 2: Turn knowledge into street magic-level illusions. Not powerful—just flashy.
Step 3: Use that to build a reputation. Not of strength. Not of skill. But of chaos.
If people feared me more than they wanted to duel me? Victory.
And the best part? My roommate, who still hadn't given me his name, finally spoke more than two full sentences.
"You're scheming," he said flatly.
"Correct."
"You're going to get expelled."
"Possibly."
"I want in."
I blinked. "What?"
He leaned back, finally smiling a little. "You make life interesting. And you're not as stupid as you act."
"That's the nicest insult I've ever received."
"I'm Eren, by the way."
"Eren?" I repeated. "Is that with one 'n' or two?"
"Try and spell it wrong and I'll set your bed on fire."
Fair enough.
New ally acquired.
Of course, no plan survives contact with the enemy. Especially when the enemy wears student robes and thinks "duel" is a love language.
By the end of the week, I had three challenge notes slipped under my door, one (1) passive-aggressive threat left in my porridge, and a hand-drawn doodle of me exploding pinned to the notice board.
Also, someone was spreading rumors that I was secretly cursed.
Honestly? That one helped. I leaned into it. Started twitching at random intervals. Muttered things like "the voices say it's almost time" whenever someone walked past.
Results? Glorious.
People gave me space in the halls. Professors stared longer but intervened less. Even Caelan hadn't tried to rematch me yet—probably waiting until I stopped "twitching."
But the real win? A note slipped into my desk during Marrin's class.
No name. Just two words: "We're watching."
Creepy? Yes.
But also intriguing.
I'd made an impression.
And that, dear imaginary therapist, is how I started becoming relevant in a world where I was supposed to be a disposable villain.
Was it ethical? Absolutely not.
Was it sustainable? Debatable.
Was it fun?
Oh, yes.