[The Next Day]
The morning sun, as if on cue, spilled across the world, warming the stone walls and cutting through the faint chill of dawn. I stood before the tall mirror in my room, examining myself while Roselyn, a figure of practiced patience, carefully fussed with my uniform.
"Yes, yes, I can do this myself," I told her, tugging at the red tie with a feigned annoyance.
She shook her head firmly, her movements precise. "It's my job, young master. Allow me."
Well, I suppose a maid insisting on her pride is a force I won't bother fighting. Her hands were surprisingly quick, her touch light and professional. I surrendered to the ritual, watching my reflection as the final pieces came together.
White shirt, crisp and pressed. Red tie, perfectly knotted. A dark blazer—light enough to pass as elegant, sharp enough to make me look like I'd throw someone out the window for spilling tea on it. Formal trousers, black shoes polished so well I could see my own tired face in them. Not bad. Actually, more than not bad—pretty damn good.
Add my face to the mix, and it's a dangerous combo. Handsome enough to charm, cold enough to worry anyone who looks too long. A mask, but a convincing one.
"It's done," Roselyn said, adjusting my collar one last time.
"Well, you did a good job," I nodded, a small smirk playing on my lips.
"That's my usual work, young master."
"Yet you do it so delicately… Don't tell me you actually enjoy dressing me up that much?"
Her cheeks pinkened just a shade. "W-well… surely yes, I do." She cleared her throat, her professional demeanor returning with a slight wobble. "And young master, I think it's time. Let's have breakfast and then head to the academy."
"Yes, as you say, dear madam." I gave her a small bow.
She gave me a look that was half exasperation, half affection. "Young master, please."
I laughed under my breath at her fluster and finally left the room.
----
Breakfast, as always, was "simple"—at least for me. For anyone else, though? Half the dining table covered in dishes would hardly count as simple. But nobles have a different scale for these things. Or maybe it's just me. Either way, I took my time, chewing slowly and savoring the quiet morning.
"Well, the meal was delicious," I said once I'd finished, wiping my mouth with a cloth napkin. "Roselyn, is the carriage ready yet?"
"Yes, young master. It's been waiting for us at the gate."
"Well then," I rose, brushing off my blazer, "let's not keep fate waiting."
She gave me a warm, knowing smile. "You and your creative words, young master."
"Fufu." With a soft chuckle, Roselyn and I made our way toward the gates.
All the staff were lined up, a perfect, quiet procession waiting with practiced patience. Haiden, the head butler, stepped forward, bowing deeply.
"Have a good journey to the academy, young master. And please… do visit us often. Don't spend too much time cooped up in the academy dormitory."
"Well, yes, Haiden, I'll keep that in mind. Who in their right mind would prefer a cramped hostel when they've got a mansion like this—along with great people so eager to serve their young lord?" I gave a charming, genuine-looking smile.
"Haha, a good way to put it, young master. I won't hold you here any longer. Have a safe journey, and enjoy your academy days."
"Yes, yes." I waved him off casually as Roselyn and I climbed into the carriage. She would be joining me, of course. The academy didn't allow much staff, but I wasn't about to leave without at least one person I trusted. And Roselyn, well… she was my one and only choice. My favorite, if I dare say.
The carriage began to move, its wheels rattling softly against the cobblestone path. I leaned back, watching the view outside the window, idly humming a tune that came to mind.
"What song is that, young master?" Roselyn asked, tilting her head.
"Just something random that came to mind. You don't like it?"
"No, I like it. It's pleasant."
"Good to know."
After that, I let the hum carry on, filling the silence of the journey. The only sound in the carriage was my low tune, drifting lazily through the air as the city passed by.
----
The journey wasn't long; the academy wasn't too far from our estate.
Our carriage rolled past the academy's grand gates—towering, majestic, almost intimidating—and as we drove deeper in, the sight unfolded.
Tall academic buildings came into view, their sheer size making it hard to call this place just a "school." No, this was something else entirely. This was a stage where everything could be achieved—knowledge, fame, accomplishments, connections, political power, even romance. Friendships that last a lifetime, rivalries that burn just as long—name it, and this place had the potential to give it.
Yes. This was the esteemed academy of our Empire, founded by the apprentice of the very first Hero the world had ever known. Built in his honor, so that potential would never go to waste. So that anyone—no matter their birth, whether from royalty or from the streets—could rise, as long as they had the fire to climb and the talent to match it.
This was the place where dreams and ambitions collided.
This was the stage where countless plays would unfold.
The Royal Academy.
"Hmm… looks like we've arrived a little early," I muttered, peering out the carriage window.
"No, Young Master," Roselyn corrected politely, a small smile on her lips. "We're right on time. It only seems early because most others disembark at the carriage parking area. Our carriage came directly through to the academy grounds."
"Ah. A special privilege reserved for us nobles, then?" I asked, half-smirking.
She shook her head slightly. "Not quite. Other nobles still get off at the parking slot. This privilege is for only a few households—mostly dukes and royalty."
I leaned back, amused. "Well, it seems our Marquis household isn't doing too badly then. Almost brushing shoulders with dukes and royalty. Don't you think?"
"Yes, Young Master. Thanks to you and the Lord, the Ravenshade estate's glory remains untarnished."
I waved her words away, the easy smile falling from my lips. "Alright, enough with the pleasantries. Don't expect a tip—classes are calling."
"As you wish, Young Master. You go on ahead. I'll take the luggage and have it waiting for you in your dormitory room."
"Mm. See you there."
Our farewell was brief, nothing sentimental—just the sort of efficiency that I always preferred.
I stepped down from the carriage with measured grace. Just as Roselyn had said, our arrival was anything but subtle. The carriage wheels hadn't even stopped before the attention fell on us—or rather, on the crest gleaming at its side. A black raven on a field of shadow.
A few students turned their heads, their quiet chatter replaced by the sound of whispering. Recognition spread quickly.
Murmurs rippled as I stepped forward, whispers carried just loud enough for me to catch fragments.
"…Ravenshade family?"
"Isn't that young Lord Evan?"
"As graceful as ever. I'm quite envious…"
Eyes followed me, some with admiration, others with envy, but all with that subtle tilt of the head that came with recognizing status.
This was how the world worked. Recognition wasn't for me—it was for the name, the crest, the bloodline.
Nobility carried its own unspoken rules. At the pinnacle sat the royal family, king and queen alike—the rulers no one dared to overshadow. Below them, the Grand Dukes and Dukes, wielding power like blades. Then the Marquises, Counts, Viscounts, and finally the Barons, each rung of the ladder a reminder of where one stood.
A rigid structure, carved into the bones of this world. A structure that made people bow their heads even before you spoke a word.
And as I walked past, they bowed—not to me, but to the place I represented on that ladder.
On paper, our family stood at the third rung, Marquis. But thanks to my father's influence, his reputation, his... charisma—the Ravenshade name had long been treated as something greater. Not quite Duke, not quite royalty, but enough that people had created a new tier for us in their whispers: "Elite Marquis."
It wasn't official. Titles never are when forged by reputation alone. But it was more than enough to make heads turn. More than enough to remind me that everyone expected me to carry that same weight, that same aura. The so-called charisma of my father. The burden they now draped on me.
Didn't you feel it? Every time I've had an interaction so far—it's been simple, polite, almost friendly. Not the rough, pompous attitude you've probably read about in novels where the so-called "third-rate young master" goes around treating people harshly, throwing tantrums, barking orders, and walking as if the entire world were his to trample on.
But me? Not once.
Yes, that's the persona I've built. Not for strangers, not for show, but for my people. For my estate, to be precise. The carefully sculpted image of a well-mannered, gentle young master—an example others could look up to, a face that reflected stability and grace. A perfect performance.
But then comes the question, doesn't it? If I was such a decent young master… then why am I "third-rate villain" in this story?
The answer's simple. Whether you like it or not, a persona remains just that—a mask. A delicate thing. And masks break. Sometimes by your will, sometimes by the will of others.
You see, I played the good young master for quite a long time. I wore that smile, spoke with warmth, carried the dignity of Ravenshade on my shoulders. But then… everything changed when I stepped into the academy.
New people. New faces. New rules of interaction.
Children my age, but raised in entirely different worlds. Each of them carried their own influences, their own visions of how life should be. And whether you believe it or not, people rub off on each other. It's unavoidable. A person becomes the sum of the fellowship he keeps.
And my new "fellowship" was… interesting.
They whispered their frustrations—complaints about how commoners had the audacity to rise in power, how they dared to stand eye-to-eye with nobles. They grumbled about jealousy, status, and the sheer indignity of losing their lofty perch. In short, their inferiority complex bled into the open.
And the way they relieved themselves? Simple. They called it "entertainment." You would call it bullying.
At first, I hesitated. I thought, "This is beneath me. Why waste my breath on such petty cruelty?"
But hesitation never lasts long in the company of rot. The more you stand among snakes, the more venom seeps into your veins.
And everything changed when Lucas entered the picture.
For me, Lucas was an unavoidable obstacle. Always there, always in the way. Not in the field of academics, mind you—no, I was leagues above him in that regard. My grades, my spearmanship, my composure… all of it placed me well beyond his reach.
What truly ticked me off was something else entirely. He wasn't competing with me for status or knowledge. No, his crime was far more irritating. He was the ever-present, ever-annoying third wheel in my so-called "romantic journey."
Yes, my glorious attempt at cultivating love—if one can even call it that—was constantly blocked, disrupted, and derailed by none other than Lucas. Whether he did it willingly or not, I couldn't say. But his timing? Perfectly inconvenient. His presence? Utterly suffocating.
Every time I tried to inch closer to Emilia, there he was. Like some cursed shadow that refused to leave me be.
He wasn't a rival in love. Rivals can be respected, even admired for their tenacity. No, Lucas was something worse. He was a cockroach of a cockblock.
And imagine this—picture taking your beloved on a carefully planned date, with every detail arranged for intimacy, only to find she brings her best friend along. He rides with you, eats with you, laughs with her, until the time you carved out for something meaningful collapses into cheap, suffocating group chatter.
That was Lucas. Always the third wheel. Always the cockblock. Always there, ruining what little progress I could claw my way toward.
Annoying doesn't even begin to describe it.
And that's what led me to my initial thoughts—foolish ones, in hindsight—that everything at the academy would be fine. But no. Of course not. Just my rotten luck that Lucas had talent with the sword. Just my luck that he managed to claw his way into the esteemed Royal Academy. And just my rotten, cursed luck that he wasn't content with being some passerby in the background—no, he had to become a "great swordsman" too.
Not for glory. Not for prestige. Not for honor.
But for the sole purpose of becoming a bigger cockblocker than ever.
So yes, my patience had its limits.
Everyone has their breaking point, and mine was constantly being tested. And of course, the company of sycophants I kept—my oh-so-loyal sidelings—were more than happy to notice.
"Why don't we take care of him, Lord Evan?"
"Yes, yes, he's a pest, always bothering you, isn't he?"
"How dare he steal the precious time of our young lord and his fiancée?"
"That commoner doesn't know his place. Just because he knows how to swing a sword, he thinks he's your equal."
Whispers like that. Poison, fed into my ears day after day. Encouragement, they called it. But really? It was just the nudge they needed to push me down the cliff.
So one day, fed up and frustrated, I called Lucas out. Alone. Just for a short conversation. A warning, really. That was all. But dealing with an idiot? Of course it turned into something worse.
"A-are you telling me not to come close to Emilia? Is that why, Lord Evan?"
That was his conclusion. His brilliant deduction. Truly, he was an idiot. I only wanted him to understand the difference between privacy and third-wheeling. But no—he refused, spouting his defiance.
And just like that, what should've been a cautious warning spiraled into a confrontation. My sidelings? Oh, they weren't going to let such a scene slip away. For them, it was nothing more than an excuse to scratch their itching need for conflict.
And that… that's how I became the "bad guy."
Not because I wanted to be. Not because I sought cruelty. But because, in that moment, no one told me that Lucas wasn't just anyone—he was the protagonist of this world.
The boy blessed by fate, the one who would always rise no matter what stood in his way.
Looking back, it's almost laughable. That single confrontation—misunderstood, magnified, and whispered into legend—is what set the label of "villain" on my back.
But that was then.
Now?
Now the play is in my hands.
And this time, it will be me who decides how the story unfolds.