Marquis straightened, pulling his blazer back into place as he walked away, the unconscious body of the boy still sprawled behind him.
Blood streaked his face, but his expression remained eerily detached, his features hardened like stone.
"He's sooo handsome," a girl passing by whispered.
"Yeah, you know he's going to be tall. He plays basketball," her friend replied.
Stem Academy was often called many things—the playground for the elite, the only school in the Stem, the exclusive institution for heirs. Yet exceptions like Ryuji Takashiro existed.
For Marquis, his first day at Stem had already been an exhausting whirlwind.
A fight with a fifth-year. A long-overdue conversation with his longtime crush—only to discover that any hope for a future relationship had dissolved before it even began. An intense basketball game with multiple heirs watching. His popularity shattered. And now, another brutal confrontation.
All of that, in just one day.
He stopped in front of a door. The corridor was eerily quiet. Without hesitation, he opened it.
The room inside was vast, starkly different from the sleek upper floors.
Dust thickened the air, as if intentionally left to deter anyone from entering.
The school's tuition was a staggering 1.2 million draws—and it only increased by 500,000 each year.
Marquis's hands trembled as he walked down the hallway, his breath shallow and quick.
Each step stretched longer, as though he was walking an infinite distance. His chest tightened with a mix of anger and confusion, the world blurring around him.
He reached for the door with a shaky hand, his fingers cold against the metal handle.
Marquis stepped into the room, the echo of his butler's voice filling his mind. "You dare hesitate," his butler had once said during a fight with a boar on the family estate.
His throat constricted, and he tried to swallow the bile rising there, but the anger and frustration were too much.
He fell to his knees, his fist slamming into the ground with a raw, desperate force.
"Your birthright is to be the perfect king," his butler's voice reminded him, each word a hammer striking his chest.
"Do not mingle with those of lesser blood," the butler had warned when Marquis tried to befriend a boy named Phillip. They dilute the blood with rash ideas, he'd said.
Marquis stood at the center of the room, a quiet storm of confusion swirling inside him. His father had never been around—rarely home, barely present.
Once in a blue moon, Kai was his only friend. The butler, his only teacher. He had been groomed for this life—to be perfect. But where was it getting him?
"Where are you now?" Marquis whispered, his voice breaking as he collapsed to his knees.
His emotions, usually held in check, came rushing forward like a tide.
"It's only the first day," he muttered, his throat raw. "Why is everything going wrong? I thought... I thought she liked me!"
He slammed his fist into the ground, the frustration boiling over. "The fight with Ryuji... why did we have to fight? Why the day after he left for the city? Why isn't he back yet?" He struck his own face, trying to release the pressure, the rage, the helplessness—but nothing helped.
He just kept murmuring, trying to make sense of it all, but the true feelings remained locked inside.
"Emotions are vital—they're the only things that move you forward," his butler's voice echoed.
That voice had shaped him, carved its lessons deep into his soul. Even now, when the man behind it was gone, it still guided him—its weight unbearable.
Grandpa, I miss you. I miss your teachings. I don't want to call you my butler anymore...
Marquis clenched his fists, his throat tightening. He didn't speak, letting the silence swallow him.
"Stand up," his butler's voice commanded—sharp and unwavering.
"I don't want to," Marquis whispered. "Maybe I should just die…"
"I said stand up." Firmer now, a crackle of authority slicing through the stillness.
This was a place meant for comfort—maybe even compensation, with a trace of skill embedded in it.
He didn't know who was responsible. In this space, no aura could be used unless the user was of a rank higher than the one who had set it. Ascendant, maybe, Marquis guessed—nothing higher.
It allowed one to reach back into memories and pull forth not a setting, not a feeling, but a single figure. A person to speak with. Someone to talk to.
And Marquis had called for him—his butler, his grandfather.
The familiar figure stood before him, stoic and composed, dressed in the crisp butler's uniform Marquis remembered. The same sharp beard. The same piercing gaze. But now, his edges shimmered faintly, a glowing blue haze outlining his form—fragile yet commanding.
"Sir…" Marquis began, hesitant. He swallowed hard and tried again. "I don't know if I'm doing too much… or if I'm just overexpressing myself. I mean, I am in puberty..." He let out a hollow, bitter laugh that sounded more like a sob.
The phantom didn't move. Didn't speak. He simply stared, the silence pressing down like a weight.
"Why?" the figure finally asked—calm, but piercing.
Marquis hesitated, then the words spilled out, raw and unfiltered. "My crush rejected me. Isn't that enough to cry about? I knew it was coming. Even before school started, I could tell something was off. But I still liked her. I really liked her. And I think… maybe she liked me too. But the way I acted, the way I thought—it pushed her away. I became… I became a monster in her eyes."
His grandfather moved, slowly, raising a hand to touch Marquis's face. His fingers were warm—impossibly so for a ghost.
"We can talk all day," he said softly, with almost fatherly patience. "But when the school bell rings, you have responsibilities waiting for you at home. Don't forget that."
That was when Marquis broke. His body convulsed as sobs wracked him, his knees buckling. He buried his face in his hands, trembling.
"I hate the way I am!" he cried. "I hate it! Why can't you just follow me everywhere? Why can't you lead me? Please—lead me!"
The ghostly figure knelt beside him, pulling him into an embrace. Marquis clung to him, grasping at fabric that didn't truly exist. He felt safe—even if only fleetingly.
"I try so hard," Marquis choked. "I try to make a difference. To follow the rules. But sometimes I wonder—are the rules even good? I see what people like me become. I saw it at that party... with Kokoro. The way they looked at me—they didn't see a boy. They saw a rival. A roadblock. Greedy, fury-driven people. I don't want to become that."
"Marquis," his grandfather said quietly, his tone laced with a heaviness that made Marquis's stomach sink. "I'm dead."
The words struck like thunder. Marquis froze. Of course, he knew. He'd known all along. But hearing it—so final, so absolute—it shattered him again.
"No… No, no, no! Just come back!" Marquis screamed, lunging forward. His fists swung through the glowing figure. "Come back! Please!"
His grandfather remained calm as his form began to waver, breaking into shimmering particles of light.
"I can't," he said softly. "You have to stand on your own now."
"No!" Marquis cried, clawing at the air as his grandfather's image blurred. "Don't leave me! Don't go!"
"You're a child, Marquis. A child still growing," his grandfather said, smiling gently. "I was twenty-two before I began to understand myself. You can't just change overnight. Growth isn't forced—it's lived. Everyone goes through this. It's part of the journey."
Marquis stared, chest tight.
"This struggle—it's expected, regardless of status. But don't let it stop you. Think about your beliefs, your politics. Why do you hold them? Why did you choose them?"
"I… uh… Anna told—"
"Oh!" his grandfather interrupted with a grin. "Anna's your crush?"
Marquis laughed quietly, hollow but genuine.
Memories hit him like a wave. Running through grasslands. Playground trips. Floating in the wind. Meals his grandfather cooked just for him.
"...Yeah," Marquis said, his smile fading.
"She says I'm too caught up," he admitted. "We were talking about leadership—if one person should rule. I know it has flaws, but if it worked before, why not now? Every district… every floor—they descend from rulers. Why revolt just because of ambition?"
His grandfather nodded. "And when was this?"
"Today," Marquis said, hands in his pockets. "I was running from a fifth year and attended her class for two hours."
"The central district?"
Marquis nodded. "Yeah. She kept going on about free dominion—how they want to serve the people instead of bloodlines. I get that, but why can't they coexist?"
"She thinks you're annoying?"
Marquis froze. The words pierced. He looked away. "...Yeah," he admitted.
"Grandad, I want to be strong," he said, voice cracking as tears welled up. His grandfather's image began to fade.
"Growth happens," his grandfather said softly. "But don't think this talk will change you overnight. It won't. You'll mess up. A lot. But remember this moment. It took me twenty-two years to stop acting like this. You? You'll get there. Maybe seventeen? No—eighteen! I've got a hunch about eighteen!"
His grandfather laughed, warm and vibrant, even as his voice faded.
Footsteps echoed in the distance.
He leaned in, voice low. "You're a jack-of-all-trades, Marquis. In a brawl? No one has your edge. Perfection?" He scoffed. "The world doesn't need perfect. It needs—"
"—a jack-of-all-trades hand," Marquis cut in, voice resolute, "to steer the perfectionists."
"Atta boy!" his grandfather bellowed, pride bursting in his fading voice.
The footsteps thundered closer until the door burst open. A figure stepped inside—a female silhouette in the dim light.
Marquis didn't hesitate. He pivoted sharply, movement fluid and precise.
Before she could react, he lunged, grabbing her arm as it lifted. In one swift motion, he brought her to the ground and pinned her.
His voice was low, deadly, each word slicing the air.
"Move—you're dead.
A skill, an aura, even a breath,
Step out of line, and it's instant death."
"How far are you willing to go?"
His grandfather's voice echoed again.
Marquis's grip tightened. His heart was steady. "I'm willing to do anything," he murmured, voice firm.
This time, it wasn't impulse. It was deliberate. Absolute. His hand rose, unwavering, targeting the blurred figure's head.
For the first time, he truly meant it.