The academy plaza buzzed with energy.
Students crowded beneath floating crystal panels, each one displaying a scroll of names that shimmered in the morning light. The placement results for the entrance trial had finally been released, and the entire first-year class was swarming to see where they had landed.
Noah approached the largest panel, hands in his coat pockets, eyes calm despite the tension radiating from everyone else.
Dozens of names scrolled rapidly across the crystal surface, sorted from Class 10 up to Class 1.
He skimmed through the top section.
Class 1... Rank 1: Cordelia Ross
Rank 2: Nora Elhain
...
Rank 14: Amelie Ardean
...
He slowed as he reached the bottom.
Rank 40: Noah
He stared for a moment, then exhaled.
"Phew. Just barely made it."
'Though I would've gone further if I'd had my girl with me.'
His gaze drifted back to the top of the list.
'Cordelia Ross…?'
The name didn't ring any bells. Not from the game, not from his past life, and not from his time on Earth.
'She's my age, too. So either she's a prodigy that never appeared before… or—'
His lips curled into a small smile.
'Another player. Huh.'
'Interesting. I'd like to meet you… and see what you're really like.'
The dormitory for Class 1 stood at the edge of the academy grounds—taller, cleaner, and far more luxurious than the others. Arched windows lined the facade, framed by carefully trimmed ivy. The stone walls were pristine, polished to a smooth finish, and the cobblestone path leading to the entrance was spotless, bordered by neatly cut hedges and flowerbeds. Every detail spoke of prestige and tradition—reserved only for the best.
Noah stepped inside without a word.
The interior was quiet. Polished floors, spacious halls, and private rooms—each marked with the name of the student who would reside there. He found it easily: "Noah" etched in silver against dark wood.
He unlocked the door and stepped in.
The room wasn't huge, but it was comfortable. A proper bed. A desk. Shelves are already stocked with essentials. A wardrobe. A window overlooking the training fields. And most importantly—privacy, he didn't need to share his room with a roommate and that was essential for him.
Noah dropped his two travel-worn bags by the bed and removed Kagetsume, placing the black katana carefully atop the desk.
'Class 1… Not bad for the first day, better than my Class 4 last time. I mean it is to be expected, I had a nerd body so it did make sense back then.'
He sat down at the desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, and uncapped the pen.
With careful strokes, he began to write.
Mom,
I survived the first day. And guess what? I made it into Class 1—the highest one.
Now you can tell the neighbors too.
I'll keep writing and sending more letters.
–Noah
He folded the letter neatly, slid it into an envelope, and stood.
His steps echoed lightly as he walked through the quiet hallway toward the nearest courier station, the letter clutched gently in his fingers.
A small smile touched his lips.
Amelie stood still in one of the quieter stone corridors behind the faculty wing. Her back was straight, her hands clasped tightly in front of her skirt, and her amber eyes fixed on the floor.
She didn't flinch when she heard the footsteps.
Her mother arrived exactly as expected—heels clicking sharply against the stone, posture perfect, expression cold.
Professor Lysandra Ardean, instructor of the Enchanter division, looked as severe as ever. Her long green hair, streaked with the faintest touch of silver, was pulled into a strict braid down her back. Her uniform coat was pristine, every button perfectly aligned. Her face bore the dignified beauty of nobility... sharpened by disappointment.
She slapped her daughter across the face.
The sound echoed in the corridor.
"You didn't even make it into the top ten. You're a disgrace."
Amelie's cheek stung, but she didn't react. Her voice came out small, almost fragile.
"I tried my best, Mother."
Lysandra's eyes narrowed. "Trying isn't enough. I expect results."
"Have you seen how the other noble children ranked? That girl from the Shadow Clan? Take her as an example. Maybe then you wouldn't keep embarrassing this family."
She raised her hand again—but stopped halfway through the motion.
Amelie closed her eyes anyway, instinctively flinching.
But the blow never came.
Instead, her mother turned and walked a step away, her final words slicing deeper than anything physical.
"You're useless. I wish I'd had a different daughter."
"No… I wish you had died a month ago during the attack on our estate. You couldn't even defend yourself from a common thief."
Amelie's breath hitched sharply. Her vision blurred instantly.
Her mother turned without another word and walked away—heels clicking down the hall, each step cutting deeper than the last.
Amelie stood frozen in place.
Then her knees gave out.
She collapsed to the cold floor, hands trembling as she gripped her skirt. Her whole body shook.
"I did my best…" she whispered.
"Why do you hate me so much?"
Tears spilled freely down her face as her voice cracked into a quiet sob.
She buried her face in her hands, curling inward beneath the crushing weight of a mother's scorn.
The sun had risen higher, casting long shadows across the walkways as students wandered the campus in clusters—talking, laughing, gossiping.
Noah walked alone.
He passed near the cafeteria when he heard them. Voices lowered, but not low enough.
"Noah? That guy made it into Class 1?"
"Never heard of him before. Must've gotten lucky."
"There's no way someone like that belongs in the top class."
Noah didn't even turn his head. He kept walking, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed ahead.
'Tsk. Jealous idiots, why do they need to do nobles like that in every game, can't they think properly por once, is it because it is a cliche?.'
But the whispers didn't stop.
"Maybe he's connected to someone. You think he bribed his way in?"
"Could be. Nobodies don't just break records."
He rounded the corner and left the murmurs behind.
Still, his thoughts lingered.
'Looks like I'll be an outcast… again.'
He stopped for a moment, gazing up at the sky.
'Last time, Cael was around. I stuck close to him. Since he had the protagonist buff, everyone loved him…'
He narrowed his eyes slightly.
Then it hit him.
'Wait.'
'Didn't the system say something a month ago…?'
He tried to recall the message.
'Technically… didn't I become the protagonist?'
A small, humorless chuckle escaped his lips.
'Guess I traded social immunity for top-tier stats, wait, I didn't get shit. Fair deal.'
Then he kept walking.
The meeting room was large and circular, with stone walls polished smooth and tall windows letting in the midday light. At its center stood a long oval table surrounded by twenty chairs—one for each of the academy's main instructors.
Every seat was occupied.
Floating sheets of enchanted parchment displayed the final results of the entrance trials, hovering over the table like glowing scrolls.
The discussion was already heated.
"I still don't understand how someone like that ended up in Class 1."
A stern-looking professor with a noble crest embroidered on his coat crossed his arms, glaring at the report. "He has no house, no known background, and no academic record worth mentioning."
"That doesn't change the numbers," Trinity shot back, fingers tapping the table. "He reached Wave 10 faster than anyone in recorded history. That alone should qualify him."
"It was a fluke," said another noble-born instructor. "He stopped early. Others went farther."
"He stopped by choice," Darius interjected calmly. "Not because he was overwhelmed. That's the difference."
"And that shows judgment," added Al, pushing his spectacles up. "I'd argue that's more valuable than blind ambition."
A few murmured in agreement.
Others didn't look convinced.
"Let's not forget," one of the older professors said sharply, "that Class 1 is expected to represent the academy's elite. We can't just fill it with... wildcards. We have donors to answer to."
The word hung in the air: donors.
Money, influence and politics.
Trinity's jaw clenched.
Darius leaned back in his chair, voice sharp now. "Are we ranking talent, or privilege?"
Silence.
For a moment, no one answered.
Then—
The heavy wooden door creaked open.
All heads turned as the Director entered.
Then came the voice.
"Are we still arguing about the boy?"
Director Adler Vos Vogelsong stepped into the room with his usual half-smile and bright eyes, as if he were walking into a tea party rather than a heated debate.
He was in his fifties, tall and lean, with gray hair tied into a low ponytail and dressed in simple, elegant robes of navy and silver. His expression radiated warmth—and a subtle hint of amusement.
He walked toward the table, hands clasped behind his back, whistling softly.
"I leave you alone for an hour," he chuckled, "and suddenly it's a war council."
Trinity straightened. "Director, we were—"
He raised a hand, still smiling. "I heard enough. Voices carry, you know. Especially when someone starts throwing words like 'wildcard' and 'donors' around."
Some professors looked away.
Others shifted in their chairs, clearly uncomfortable.
The director stopped beside the floating list of names, tapping the section marked Class 1. With a small flick of his finger, the screen scrolled to the bottom, highlighting the last entry.
Rank 40: Noah
He let out a short laugh.
"That's the boy who broke the wave-time record, right?"
"Yes," Al said firmly.
"And the one who walked away from Wave 10 without a scratch?"
"Correct," Darius added.
The director gave a thoughtful hum. Then, with zero hesitation:
"Let him in."
Several noble-aligned professors straightened.
"But Director—"
He turned to them with the same cheerful smile.
"You're worried he doesn't have a famous name. I'm more worried you're blind to talent."
He waved a hand, dismissing the final complaints.
"If you're really that upset, feel free to outscore him next semester. Should be easy, right?"
Silence.
Then, Trinity smirked. Darius crossed his arms in smug satisfaction. Al nodded once, almost like he'd expected this all along.
The director spun on his heel.
"Good. Meeting over. I'll go check if the kitchen still has those cinnamon rolls."
He whistled his way out the door, leaving behind a room split between quiet resentment and stifled laughter.