The bell rang sharp and high across the courtyard, marking the start of third-period literature. Students scattered like lazy birds, carrying bags, drinks, and half-finished gossip from one corridor to the next. Viera Langford moved among them without hurry, her gait purposeful, her steps measured.
She didn't run between classes. She observed.
That had always been her mistake the first time—rushing forward, assuming intellect and innovation were enough to guard her against people. Now she knew better.
People didn't need reasons to hate you. Just excuses.
Her next class was held in Room 2-10, on the second floor of the west wing—a classic space with long-paneled windows, ancient wooden floors that creaked with every step, and the scent of ink and old paper clinging to the walls. The instructor was Professor Beren, an old man with a permanent scowl and the disposition of a man who never truly forgave literature for outliving its authors.
Viera slipped into the second row and took a seat near the window.
As always, she scanned the room.
There were seventeen students in this section. Six were from the elite "Legacy" stream—children of business moguls, foreign diplomats, and politicians. Most sat near the back, their postures dripping with practiced boredom.
The rest were average students—quiet, cautious, too intimidated to speak up unless called.
Viera didn't sit with either group.
Let them categorize her later. For now, she was a ghost in their system.
"Langford," Professor Beren muttered as he marked the attendance register. His pen paused a second too long. "Returning?"
"Yes, Professor."
"Family illness, was it?"
She inclined her head slightly. "Among other things."
"Hmph. You'll have to catch up. We're knee-deep in comparative classics—Dresden versus Neru. Read the packets by Friday."
"I've already read them, sir."
That earned her a rare glance. He said nothing else, but his raised brow betrayed surprise.
The rest of the class trickled in. A boy knocked over a desk. A girl dropped her textbook with a thud. The usual clutter of youth.
Viera's eyes locked briefly with Reina Halstrom's, seated two rows behind.
Reina had noticed her now.
Good.
Professor Beren turned and began to lecture on themes of inherited guilt in The Marble Cross, a novella most of the students hadn't even opened. Viera had read it three times in her past life, annotated it in full, and written a research article that had been cited in a university archive.
So instead of taking notes, she watched.
She observed how Reina tapped her pen every time Beren mentioned lineage—likely a subconscious tic about her own family legacy. She noticed how Jace, sitting near the aisle, stared at the ceiling more than the blackboard. And how a shy girl in front—Marina, she believed—highlighted random lines out of sheer panic, not comprehension.
None of these details were trivial.
They were keys.
And Viera was already thinking six moves ahead.
By the end of class, she had already mapped out who was smart, who was bluffing, who was afraid to speak, and who was ready to be molded.
Her next class was physics, taught by Miss Kanya—mid-thirties, bright-eyed, and reputed to be the only teacher who had ever stood up to the school board. She greeted Viera with polite surprise, then dived into electromagnetism with a level of enthusiasm most students found exhausting.
Not Viera.
She answered every question without raising her hand, smoothly and without arrogance. Just enough to be noticed. Just enough to stir the curiosity of everyone who'd written her off as "the girl who left."
By the time class ended, two students were whispering her name in the hallway.
"Did you see how she solved the coil problem? That was college-level."
"She's probably cheating."
"Nah, she's just... scary smart."
Viera didn't react. She walked past them like they didn't exist.
Lunch came. She went to the courtyard alone, choosing a shaded bench beneath a lemon tree. Her mother had packed a small bento—rice balls, pickled greens, and a small egg roll. Comfort food. The kind of thing her past self would've ignored in favor of protein shakes and energy bars.
She took her time eating, then pulled out her tablet and connected to the student forum—St. Carridan's intranet. Most students used it to chat, share class notes, or post event flyers.
She posted a question under a new alias:
Username: WhisperForge
"Looking for three students with strong math or coding backgrounds. Interested in revolutionizing the student entrepreneur scene. DM if you're bold enough to build something the world isn't ready for."
Within minutes, her inbox pinged.
Three replies.
All anonymous.
All exactly what she wanted.
She smiled.
Step one: create mystery.
Step two: offer opportunity.
Step three: choose who to elevate.
Her final class for the day was Martial Arts Theory—a mandatory elective most students resented. The academy, proud of its "well-rounded excellence" policy, required students to study at least one discipline of physical combat or conditioning.
The instructor this year was new.
Viera stepped into the mirrored training hall and froze.
Not because of the space—it was the same: wooden floors, padded walls, bamboo racks lined with wooden swords.
But because of the man standing at the front.
He was tall, lean, maybe in his mid-twenties, with sun-browned skin, broad shoulders, and a scar down his right cheek. His eyes were cool and sharp, like a man who'd seen too much war and not enough peace.
"Welcome," he said. "I'm Instructor Kael."
His voice carried an edge. The room quieted instantly.
"Before we begin," he said, pulling a wooden staff from the rack, "I need to assess where each of you stand. Volunteers?"
Silence.
Then Jace, with his ever-present arrogance, stepped forward. "I'll go."
Kael raised an eyebrow. "Confident?"
"More like curious," Jace said.
They sparred briefly. Jace moved well—he had strength and speed—but no control. Kael disarmed him in three moves.
"Sit down," Kael said. "Next?"
Viera stepped forward without hesitation.
Kael's gaze flicked to her. "Name?"
"Viera Langford."
His expression didn't change, but she caught the faint flicker of recognition. She hadn't expected him to know her name—yet there it was. A ghost of familiarity in his eyes.
They bowed.
She moved first.
Fast. Controlled. Like lightning through silk.
Kael blocked her, shifted, parried—but his eyebrows lifted slightly with each movement. She wasn't just good. She was trained. Deeply trained.
They circled. He came at her with a quick strike, and she spun under it, sweeping his leg. He dodged in time, barely.
The students gasped.
Then Kael struck again—harder, faster.
Viera dodged. Stepped inside his guard. Stopped her palm just a hair's breadth from his heart.
They both froze.
Then Kael smiled.
"Impressive," he said quietly. "Where did you train?"
"Nowhere official."
He knew she was lying. But he didn't call her out.
"Class dismissed," he said a minute later. "Langford—stay behind."
She did.
When everyone else left, Kael folded his arms. "You're no amateur. And you didn't come back here just for school, did you?"
"I came to finish something," Viera said. "And to start something better."
He studied her. "You've got scars I can't see yet. Don't let them turn into chains."
"They're not chains," she replied. "They're armor."
He smiled faintly. "You remind me of someone I used to know."
And with that, he turned and left.
As the sun dipped beyond the academy walls, Viera stood alone in the mirrored room, her reflection staring back—cool, poised, calculating.
She wasn't just here to retake her throne.
She was here to build an empire beneath their feet.
One step, one class, one move at a time.