The elven princess lay fast asleep, framed by the glow of moonlight spilling in through the tall window. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, her serene face untouched by the world's chaos. A picture of delicate, untouchable beauty.
The silence didn't last long.
A low whistle broke it.
"Damn, she's a looker," Lacey muttered, crouching beside the bed. "Sleeping like a fairytale heroine. You think if I kiss her she'll wake up and thank me? Heh, maybe I should test it."
He leaned closer, his masked face hovering just above hers.
Before he got any further, a gloved hand yanked him back by the collar.
"Keep your filthy face away," the Tech snapped, voice sharp behind his mask. "We're not here for your half-ass romance fantasies. Stick to the plan."
Lacey rubbed his neck and rolled his eyes. "Man, can't a guy live a little? Everything with you is rules and work." He grumbled but reached for her again.
Slap!
His hand recoiled instantly, as if the princess's sleeping palm had a mind of its own. She didn't stir—still breathing peacefully.
"What the hell? Did she just slap me?" Lacey whispered, staring at his stinging hand.
The Tech frowned. "Try again. Maybe it was reflex."
Slap!
"Motherfucker! She's awake, isn't she? She's resisting!"
"No," the Newbie cut in calmly, his voice low but firm. "She's still asleep. It's instinct. Elves are different. Sensitive to presence, intentions… emotions. If you approach with bad thoughts, their body reacts on its own. Like a natural defense."
Lacey scowled under his mask. "So what then? I tie her up, gag her, haul her off like luggage?"
"Or," the Newbie replied flatly, "you could try touching her without being a pervert."
Lacey let out a laugh, sharp and defensive. "Fuck you. At least I'm honest. If I lust, I lust. I don't pretend otherwise."
"So you're admitting you're lusting over a girl who looks sixteen?"
"She's not sixteen!" Lacey shot back, voice indignant. "Don't let the face fool you. She's older than my dead grandma, I guarantee it. Elves age slow, but legally? She's grown, ripe, and experienced."
"What a noble way to hide your intentions," the Tech muttered, unimpressed.
"Why don't you try then, Tech? If you're so righteous," Lacey challenged.
The Tech froze. "No. I can't. I… have a phobia."
"…A what?"
"A phobia. Of pretty women," he said quickly, voice rising an octave. "When I was a kid, I lived near a red-light district. Whenever those women had a bad day, they'd grab me. They'd play with me, molest me. Once, they shoved a cucumber up my—"
"STOP! We believe you." Lacey yelled, both hands in the air. "Goddamn, I didn't need that mental image!"
The room fell into an awkward silence. Then, quietly, the Newbie stepped past them both. Without hesitation, he slipped an arm under the princess's shoulders and knees, and in one smooth motion, lifted her from the bed.
The other two stared, dumbfounded.
"…How the hell did you pull that off?" the Tech whispered.
"Guess I'm just a gentleman," the Newbie said, his tone flat, unreadable.
"Huh, or a man with no libido," Lacey muttered bitterly.
Ignoring the jab, the Newbie asked, "Do we carry her like this, or are we bagging her?"
Tech quickly pulled a large, coarse sack from his pack. "Standard procedure. Put her in here. Easier to move. Less chance of her waking up."
The Newbie slid the princess gently inside. The sight of an elven princess stuffed into a sack would've been comical if it weren't so grim.
"Great. A princess in a potato bag. New achievement unlocked," the Newbie muttered under his breath.
"Alright, let's move," Tech ordered, his voice back to business.
They moved slowly, keeping their steps light, their caution returning. They passed the sleeping elf on the sofa and retraced their steps until they finally came back to the window where they had initially entered.
"…So, how exactly are we going to get down with a princess over my shoulder here?" the Newbie asked, adjusting the sack.
"Easy," Lacey said with a grin the Newbie could feel even through the mask. "We throw her."
"What—"
Before the Newbie could process the command, Lacey lunged forward, grabbed the sack from the Newbie's arms, and, with a grunt of effort, heaved the elven princess out the window.
"YOU PSYCHOTIC BASTARD!" the Newbie roared, diving after it without a second thought. The night air roared past his ears as he plummeted, eyes locked on the flailing sack.
As he fell, the Newbie stretched every fiber of his being, the feeling of the fall feeling slow and desperate as he chased the rapidly descending sack. He finally reached it, grabbing the cloth tight.
Holding her close, he managed to twist mid-air so his back faced the ground, bracing for impact, effectively shielding the girl with his body.
The Newbie closed his eyes, steeling himself for the bone-jarring, neck-breaking collision.
Poof.
But when his back hit the ground, something soft and yielding absorbed the shock.
"What the—" he said, confused, his hand reaching out to touch the soft, cushiony matrix beneath him. It felt like densely packed, magically infused hay.
Thump. Thump.
Two distinct sounds landed beside him, confirming Lacey and the Tech had dropped down.
"Bawahaha! Did you see his face?! He really jumped like some hero to save the princess! What a simp!"
"You crazy motherfu—" the Newbie started, rage surging.
"Lacey," Tech cut him off, exasperated. "You didn't tell him about the hay mattress?"
"Why would I?" Lacey chuckled. "Watching him panic was priceless."
Tech shook his head, already moving. "Enough. Newbie, ignore him. Let's move."
The Newbie's jaw tightened behind the mask. He followed in silence, the sack still in his grip, but his mind burned with only one thought.
One day, he'd repay Lacey for this stunt.
____
[Traning Hall]
The training ground lay still, broken only by the sound of ragged breathing.
Lucas, drenched in sweat, drove his longsword forward one last time. Steel cut through air with a sharp whistle before smashing into the wooden dummy's chest. The impact sent a splintering crack across its frame, and with a groan, the battered figure finally collapsed in a heap.
Lucas stood over it, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm, droplets of sweat dripping from his chin to stain the packed dirt. His tunic clung to him, soaked through, while his calloused grip tightened reflexively around his weapon.
"Hah… is this still not enough?" he muttered, sheathing the blade with a heavy sigh.
"Depends," came a calm voice from the shadows of the archery range.
Two figures stepped into the open—Aldric and Arthur, their uniforms uncreased and spotless, the perfect picture of noble composure. Their presence was like a deliberate contrast to Lucas, every bit as polished as he was worn down.
"Seriously," Aldric said with a smirk, eyeing the ruined dummy. "Do you have some personal grudge against training dummies, or are you trying to singlehandedly bankrupt the academy?"
Arthur, leaning lazily against a pillar, gave the shattered wood a once-over and let out a dry laugh.
"Pfft. That poor thing looks like it got beat down by a drunk father who found out payday came late."
Lucas exhaled a short, tired chuckle but said nothing, running a hand across his damp forehead.
"You've been at it nonstop, Lucas," Aldric continued, his tone softening. "What's gotten under your skin? Some kind of driving force, maybe?"
Lucas glanced at him, his expression subdued. "Something like that, Lord Aldric. I just… I'm tired of being weak. I need at least some strength to stand on."
Arthur blinked, tilting his head. "Weak? You're the guy who took down that troll during the dungeon exam! How in the hell do you call that weak?"
Lucas shook his head slowly, the evening air cooling the sweat along his jaw.
"No, Lord Arthur. The one who dealt most of the damage was Lord Evan. I only delivered the final strike. That moment… it wasn't victory. It was circumstance. To me, it feels hollow."
For a moment, silence stretched. Then Aldric scoffed, clicking his tongue as he pushed away from the pillar.
"Tch. Don't start spouting praise for that coward Ravenshade. I could outmatch him any day. I'm stronger than he'll ever be."
Lucas didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he offered a faint, tired smile—the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes—and let Aldric's words hang in the air, unanswered.
"Anyway, man, it's so early in the morning! What is it, three? Four? And on a Sunday, no less. How early did you even start training?" Aldric asked, his voice caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement.
Lucas scratched the back of his head, a gesture that betrayed his awkward honesty. "Uh… well, I've been practicing all night, so—"
"What?!" Aldric's eyes widened. "Are you serious?"
"Unbelievable," Arthur cut in, half laughing, half scolding. He leaned forward, his arms folded casually across his chest. "Just two days ago, you passed out flat on your face from training too much. If it weren't for us, you'd probably still be rotting out here on the dirt, unconscious."
Lucas chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Hahaha… I'm still thankful for that, honestly."
"We're not looking for praise, idiot," Aldric snapped, but his tone lacked any bite.
Lucas just smiled faintly, his exhaustion softening into something warmer. Whatever this was—friendship, camaraderie, or some strange middle ground—it had begun to take shape. Him, a commoner, and them, heirs of noble bloodlines. On the surface it was an unlikely trio, yet here they were.
It hadn't started with anything grand. Just lunches where Aldric and Arthur would sit near him, occasional training sessions shared in silence or light banter, small, forgettable interactions that slowly stacked up into something that mattered.
The real turning point had come that day when Lucas had been caught in a spiral. Swing. Reset. Again. Again. His body had gone on autopilot, his mind drowning in self-recrimination, until finally, he collapsed from sheer exhaustion. When he woke up, it was to the unfamiliar sight of two highborn nobles hauling his drenched, unconscious body into the infirmary, muttering curses the whole way.
From then on, they started showing up—not to save him, but to make sure he didn't drive himself into the ground again. Sometimes they'd come to check if he was still alive, sometimes just to jeer at his stubbornness. Either way, they came.
"Well, that's what they say, anyway," Lucas thought with a wry smile. Their rough words were just a cover. He could tell—they wouldn't bother if they didn't care.
"Anyway, man, I just won the bet," Arthur said, breaking the silence with a satisfied grin.
Lucas blinked, confused. "What bet?"
Arthur jerked his thumb toward Aldric. "I bet with him this morning. I said we'd find you here at this ungodly hour, still swinging like a lunatic. He said you wouldn't. Guess who's the idiot who owes me money now?"
"Really? Now I'm reduced to being bet material," Lucas deadpanned.
"Wow, he realizes it. Progress," Arthur fired back, smirking. Then his tone softened, almost brotherly. "Anyway, now that we've checked on you and confirmed you're not dead, we're heading out. This hour wasn't made for sane people, and you should follow our example. Go shower, get some sleep. You've done enough for one night."
Lucas's gaze had already drifted back to the fresh training dummies. "I'll go. Just… a little more first."
"You're hopeless," Aldric sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Come on, Arthur. Let's leave him to rot with his wooden friends. I don't want to catch this idiot's vibe."
The two nobles turned, their footsteps fading into the stillness of the early dawn.
Lucas was alone again. The silence pressed in heavier this time, broken only by his ragged breathing and the faint creak of his sword grip. He tightened his hold, lifting the blade once more.
The only reason I keep swinging this damn sword… it's not for some noble cause. Not for glory. It's just… I don't know what else to do anymore.
The steel met the dummy's torso with a dull thud. Again. Again. Each strike louder than the last.
I don't know where to move forward. What did I even come here for? This academy—wasn't it supposed to mean something? Everyone else—noble, commoner, prodigy, failure—they all have some goal carved into them. It's just me. Empty. I had one once. Just a girl to chase. Silly, stupid, but it was something. And now that's gone.
He struck harder, his teeth clenched.
Now what's left?
Emilia's face came to him, pale and withdrawn. She had locked herself away, refusing to speak to anyone. Lucas hadn't dared to press further, telling himself it wasn't his place, but the thought still sat like a shard in his chest. He hated it. Hated how helpless he was.
They say it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Whoever said that never felt this hollow.
The dummy splintered under his sword. Lucas stepped back, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples. He was getting stronger—anyone could see that—but he didn't care. Not really.
He wandered to a nearby bench. A towel, a half-full water bottle, and a stale piece of bread waited there. He wiped himself down, took a slow sip, and chewed the bread mechanically.
Then, from his pocket, he drew it—a smooth, red-glowing sphere. A Mana Stone. Even under the weak light, it pulsed faintly, as if alive.
A reward from the dungeon exam. He had been one of those who struck down the unexpected beast, and for that, he'd earned this prize.
For most students, it was a miracle—raw, crystallized power, enough to flood their mana cores and push their limits higher. A shortcut to strength. A treasure that could change their future.
"Feels wasted on me."
The stone glittered in his palm, mocking him. He knew exactly what it could do: fill a person's mana core with fresh energy, sometimes even expand it permanently. A reward anyone would kill for.
But Lucas's hand tightened. His blessing—[Mana Child]. Rare beyond belief. An endless source of mana, a power scholars would beg to study.
The problem was simple, yet cruel. His mana core was too small, too fragile. His blessing poured an infinite river into a cup that could barely hold a handful. Push it too far, and it would break him from the inside out.
Unlimited mana… but nowhere to store it. Like having an infinite air tank but only a balloon to hold it—fill it too much, and it bursts.
That's why the stone was useless to him. No—worse than useless. It could kill him.
He closed his fist around it, pressing until the edges dug into his skin. Even with a blessing most people would envy, Lucas felt no pride. Only the same gnawing emptiness that had driven him here in the first place.
"Maybe I should get going," Lucas murmured, picking up his sword. With a small, weary breath, he stepped out of the training grounds.
The world outside was still draped in darkness; the sun hadn't even begun to rise. The air was cold and still, as if the academy itself hadn't yet woken. "Those two really came to check on me this early," he thought, a flicker of warmth breaking through his exhaustion.
He walked aimlessly, the cool morning breeze cutting against his sweat-soaked skin. The chill was sharp, unpleasant—yet somehow refreshing, like a reminder he was still alive. Step after step, without really thinking, his feet brought him to a familiar place: Liliane Hall—the girls' dormitory.
Lucas found himself here often, though he couldn't say exactly why. Was it longing? Perhaps. Maybe it was simply the desperate, foolish wish to stand outside these gates and somehow reach Emilia—to see her one more time, to speak, to know she was alright.
But he knew his boundaries. He couldn't take a step further, not now, not even in the light of day. The area around the girls' dormitory was strictly forbidden for men to enter, and the only reason he stood here now was that it was so early, no one would make him turn back.
"But even if the restriction wasn't placed over me, nor does anything stop me, would it still be within my capability?" he thought, his gaze sweeping over the silent, towering stone of the hall.
As each passing day, I felt useless, as if my existence wasn't even good for anything. I am just another worthless... "
The final, bitter word—commoner—died unspoken, trapped in his throat.
"Why am I still standing here like a fool?" Lucas muttered, finally forcing himself to turn away. Each step dragged, his legs heavy as though they might buckle beneath him.
Then it hit him—an odd haze in the air, a sudden wave of dizziness that made him stumble. He pressed a hand over his mouth and nose, waiting for the lightheadedness to fade. After a moment, it passed.
"What… the hell was that?" His voice was low, wary. Instinctively, he tugged his damp towel around his face like a makeshift mask.
At first, the air seemed normal. But then he noticed it—tiny, shimmering particles drifting lazily in the breeze. He raised his palm. A faint dusting of glitter settled on his skin. Lowering the towel slightly, he inhaled. The dizziness returned, sharp but fleeting.
"This isn't normal," he muttered, eyes narrowing as he glanced back toward the silent gates of Liliane Hall. "What is this—and why does it feel wrong?"
Could it be some academy experiment? A new spell? Or was it something far more dangerous? His gut twisted with unease.
He remembered another time, long ago—when he was a child and stumbled upon a strange carriage parked at a hidden road. His instincts had screamed at him then, too. He had obeyed them, hiding and watching, and what he saw were children his age locked inside like livestock. Running to tell his mother had led to the guards intercepting a child-trafficking ring.
That memory made his chest tighten. This wasn't some childish hunch. His instincts had saved lives before.
"…Fine. Just a quick look. If everything's fine, I walk away."
He circled toward the back of the dormitory, avoiding the front entrance.
The wall there was smaller—still tall, but low enough for him to climb. He braced himself, ready to scale it.
And froze.
Three figures dropped soundlessly from the top, landing with practiced grace. All wore black robes, their faces hidden behind masks. One carried a bulging sack, cradling it with unusual care.
"Man, Newbie jumped so gently," one of them chuckled darkly. "Gotta protect that lovely sack. You did leap off a building for her, after all."
"He never shuts up," another sighed, voice muffled behind the mask.
Lucas's breath caught. The sack shifted ever so slightly in the man's arms. Whatever was inside—it wasn't just luggage.
He stepped forward before he could second-guess himself, his voice cutting through the dawn air.
"What the hell are you people doing?"
The three froze mid-step. Slowly, as one, their heads snapped toward him.