I felt it first in my stomach—a sudden lurch, like the ground had been ripped from beneath me. The world pitched sideways. My limbs grew impossibly light, like I was about to float away from my own skin. Then, with a violent jolt, everything snapped back into place.
When I opened my eyes, I was standing in the courtyard again. The smoke, the blood, the broken ground—it was all gone. Time itself had wound backward, stitching the scene whole as if nothing had ever happened.
But I knew better.
Lucas stood a few paces ahead, bloodied but unbowed, sword clutched in his fist. His voice carried the exact same snarl as before, raw and furious.
"Now it's just you and me. No more lies. No more excuses. Show me what's inside."
Déjà vu. Same words. Same moment.
But this time, I didn't wait. I didn't try to reason, run in circles, or talk myself into a villain monologue. My heart thundered with the memory of what came next—the tightening noose, the instructors, the inevitable death.
Not again.
"If you're so eager, then why fucking not!" I roared, throwing the sack with every ounce of strength I had.
"Wait—wha—" Lucas's voice cracked mid-word. His body, trained by endless repetition, moved before his mind could catch up. He dropped his guard and lunged forward, catching the sack mid-air. The momentum staggered him, his boots scraping against the stone.
Then he froze. His sword arm lowered without him meaning to. His eyes flicked down to the limp, silk-wrapped figure in his arms. The weight. The shape. The unmistakable warmth of a body.
It broke his focus completely.
That was my window.
I didn't waste a second. My legs were already pumping, my lungs dragging in sharp breaths of cold night air as I bolted toward the perimeter wall.
"Wait—where the hell are you—" Lucas started to shout, his confusion overriding pain and logic.
Too late.
I fished into my stolen gear and yanked out the last of my arsenal: one smoke crystal, two stun orbs. My salvation. My exit ticket. I hurled them all in a tight cluster at his feet without even looking back.
FZZZZZ! CRACK! BOOM!
A blinding flash, a sharp stun wave, and a cloud of thick, noxious smoke erupted simultaneously, silencing his protest and engulfing the protagonist in chaos. I used the confusion and ran harder than before.
____
"Cough, cough!" Lucas hacked, lungs burning with the acrid stench of magical smoke. His eyes watered so badly he could barely keep them open. The flash crystal had nearly stolen his sight—he only avoided complete blindness by clamping his eyelids shut at the last second.
When the haze finally thinned, the courtyard was empty. The masked figure was gone.
"Well, that's to be expected," Lucas muttered, spitting the metallic taste of mana residue from his mouth. His voice was ragged, bitter. "Why else throw smoke and flash crystals if not to vanish like some stage magician?"
It was only then he realized what his hands still clutched.
The sack.
Heavy. Warm. Breathing.
A chill ran down his spine. There was no mistaking it—someone alive was inside.
"…So they were here to kidnap someone," Lucas said under his breath, fingers tightening on the coarse material. "But who? And why here?"
His mind raced, suspicion and dread tangling together. No ordinary student, that was for certain. Why risk infiltrating the academy in the dead of night unless the target was someone worth the danger? And—how the hell did they even get in? Was security this weak, or was something else at play?
With mounting unease, Lucas crouched and began tugging the sack open.
Each fold he peeled back felt heavier than the last, as if the world itself resisted the reveal.
And then he saw her.
His thoughts went white.
Delicate features framed by cascades of silver-white hair. Skin pale as moonlight, unmarred by dirt or blood. Even now, even unconscious, her expression was serene—as if the chaos around her had no power to reach her.
Lucas's stomach plummeted.
"…The Elven Princess," he whispered, the words tasting like ash.
For a long moment, he couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The sack in his arms suddenly felt less like fabric and more like chains—chains of diplomacy, chains of politics, chains that could strangle nations.
"Am I… in deep trouble?" he muttered, then barked a hollow laugh. "No. No, no. I saved her. I interfered with the kidnappers. I saved her. This isn't my fault. It shouldn't be my fault."
But even as he said it, the truth dug claws into him. Blood on his sword. Unconscious bodies on the ground. Him, standing alone in front of the girls' dormitory at midnight with a princess cradled in his arms.
Every angle screamed guilt.
"What the hell am I supposed to tell the instructors?" Lucas hissed, pacing in place, nearly dropping her in his fluster. "That I just happened to be here, at this exact hour, standing over two half-dead criminals, oh and by the way—look who I found in a sack?"
A new thought slithered into his head—awful, pathetic, painfully honest.
"Or do I tell them the truth? That I come here every night, standing under the window of my crush, hoping I'll hear her voice through the silence?"
He slapped his forehead. "No! That's not just insane, that's social suicide! They'd expel me before the kidnappers even get a word in."
Two options. Both terrible.
Chase the masked figure: He could try, use the excuse of pursuit to buy time. But that meant leaving the princess behind. What if more enemies were lurking?
Stay and face the music: Guard her, protect her, and pray the instructors didn't immediately decide he was the villain.
His jaw tightened. The choice wasn't really a choice. He couldn't abandon her. Not like this.
Lucas let out a strangled groan, glaring at the night sky as if it had personally wronged him.
"Why? Why is it always me? Every step I take is a damn ashtray—smoke, filth, and fire. Am I cursed to be the character in someone else's melodrama?"
He dragged a hand down his face, muttering, "Hell, this is turning into a drama so twisted even the bards wouldn't write it."
And still, the princess slept peacefully in his arms—like a ticking bomb with a beautiful face.
-----
--
The sound of boots against stone shattered the silence.
Lucas stiffened, sword trembling slightly in his hand, his whole body aching from bruises and cuts. He forced himself to stand straight, the unconscious infiltrators sprawled at his feet, the princess lying serene in the grass beside him.
"Stay where you are!" he barked, his voice cracking despite his best effort to sound menacing. He raised his sword like a shield against the dark. "One step closer and you'll end up like your friends!"
A slow, deliberate sound answered him.
Clap. Clap.
"Well," a voice drawled, deep and resonant. "What a courageous boy you are."
Lucas's blood iced over. That voice. That weight.
Out of the gloom emerged a tall, broad-shouldered man, his presence swallowing the courtyard. His stride was unhurried, yet every step pressed down like a mountain. Scars traced his arms and jawline, his black hair streaked faintly with gray. His eyes, sharp and merciless, pinned Lucas where he stood.
Abraham Bloodraven. The academy's infamous battle instructor. A veteran whose name alone could still silence taverns.
Lucas's grip on his sword faltered, though he held it higher to mask the tremor.
Abraham tilted his head, studying him like one might an insect. "Hmm. If memory serves me right… I know that face. You're a first-year, aren't you?"
"Y-yes, Instructor," Lucas stammered, forcing the word out through dry lips.
"Good. Then explain." Abraham's voice was calm—too calm. The sort of calm that made even silence scream. "What exactly happened here? In detail. Right now."
Lucas swallowed hard, throat tight as rope. He forced words past his panic, spilling everything—how he'd seen the powder, confronted the infiltrators, fought, and finally triggered the mana crystal.
Abraham listened without interrupting, arms crossed. When Lucas finally finished, the silence dragged, suffocating.
"Hmm." The instructor's gaze narrowed. "Did you… detonate a mana crystal? You, a first-year?" His tone wasn't accusatory, just sharp curiosity—the kind that made Lucas feel like a frog pinned open under a knife.
"I-I didn't do it myself, sir," Lucas stammered, sweat prickling his forehead. "It—it was only possible because of my Blessing."
"Ah. A Blessing, then." Abraham's lips curled faintly—not a smile, but acknowledgment. He didn't press. He knew better than to force a student to expose their gift's nature.
Instead, his tone hardened. "The priority is the princess."
At his command, female staff members rushed forward. With careful precision, they lifted the unconscious elven princess and carried her back toward the safety of the dormitory.
Other instructors fanned out, securing the unconscious infiltrators. The body of the slain leader was already being dragged aside.
"They've caused us more trouble than I thought," Abraham muttered, surveying the wreckage. His gaze flicked to Lucas. "If not for your little explosion… they might have succeeded in kidnapping the princess under our very noses. And that would have been war."
Lucas lowered his sword, exhaustion catching up with him. "…I just did what I thought was right in the moment."
Abraham studied him, his expression unreadable, until his gaze softened ever so slightly—a predator granting a rare nod of respect.
"Bravery in the face of death. Hmph. Not bad."
But the softness was short-lived. His eyes sharpened again, drilling into Lucas.
"Now, boy… there's one thing I cannot ignore." His voice dropped to a dangerous rumble. "What exactly are you doing here at this hour? Alone. In front of the girls' dormitory. Conveniently positioned at the center of all this?"
The exact question Lucas had prayed wouldn't come. His chest tightened, every excuse clogging his throat. The truth was impossible. Staying silent was suicide.
So he lied.
"I—" he stammered, forcing himself to meet Abraham's gaze, though his knees screamed to buckle. "I… I have a girl. A girlfriend. We… sneak out sometimes. To meet. That's why I was here."
The words spilled, pitiful and desperate. "It's—it's a secret relationship. That's all. We, um, we didn't want people to know, so we… we do things like this sometimes."
The lie felt like swallowing glass. Shame burned hotter than fear, but it was safer than confessing the truth.
"Hahahahaha! Well, well, look at the young fellow in love, huh? Never expected a young tad like you to have such a Romeo side!" Abraham boomed, a wide, unexpected grin splitting his face.
Lucas felt his cheeks burn with shame, even though his face was obscured by drying blood and dirt. The absurdity of the lie was crushing.
"Well, student, sorry for interrogating you so much, even though you are the one who saved the day." Abraham turned to a kind-faced woman nearby. "Miss Helena, can you please come and cast a healing spell over our Romeo? He needs it."
"I did it very early, Abraham, but you just kept the boy occupied! Look how injured he is," the instructor, Miss Helena, gently chastised.
She immediately knelt by Lucas and began casting a soft, shimmering healing spell over his numerous cuts and the throbbing injury on his calf. The magic felt like cool water on burning skin.
"Hmm, Instructor," Lucas managed to say, wincing as the magic worked. "About the one that had run off... what about him?"
"Ooh, don't worry," Abraham said dismissively. "Brandt, along with others, is looking for him. He will get captured, even if he hides under a mountain."
As he said it, Abraham's gaze sharpened, looking not at Lucas, but toward the distance, as if already calculating the net that was closing around the final target.
_____
"Where has that pest hidden himself!?" Brandt's voice boomed across the quiet grounds, his tone sharp enough to make even veteran guards flinch. His men swept through the academy's shadows with lanterns raised, blades drawn.
"Report! Any sign?"
"No, sir," a guard answered, breathless. "We're still searching."
"Tsk!" Brandt clicked his tongue, fury simmering beneath his scarred face. Damn it all…
The infiltration was bad enough, but the target—if the elves learned their princess had nearly been taken from under the academy's nose, their reputation would shatter. Funding, trust, everything… gone. The higher council would demand answers—and someone's head. Likely his.
"Instructor Brandt!" a voice rang out, urgent.
His head snapped. "What is it?"
"I… I think I've found something."
"Where? Show me!"
The scout led them at a brisk pace through the quieter stretch of the grounds, toward the workers' rest house. They stopped at a detached bathroom building, its walls lit ghostly under the moonlight.
"Here, sir," the scout whispered, pointing down.
Brandt's eyes narrowed. A faint smear of red streaked across the dirt and stone, vanishing into the bathroom door.
"A blood trail," Brandt muttered, crouching to inspect it. He touched the edge with his glove, still wet. "Not much… This isn't from someone collapsing. It's recent. A struggle brought it here."
The tension among the men sharpened. Blades hissed from sheaths.
"Stay alert," Brandt growled, voice low. He drew his own mana-forged sword, its steel humming faintly.
Step by step, they entered.
The bathroom smelled faintly of iron and damp stone. White tiles reflected the wavering lantern light, marred by streaks of crimson leading to a single closed stall.
Every man's breath seemed to halt.
Brandt raised his weapon, his gaze unblinking. Cornered rat…
With a sudden jerk, he pulled the stall door open.
Creeeak.
What greeted him wasn't panic. It wasn't desperation.
It was calm.
"Hello, Instructor."
A smooth, almost amused voice greeted him.
A boy sat casually atop the closed toilet lid, posture relaxed as if waiting for tea. His grey eyes caught the lantern's glow like storm clouds. Beside him sprawled the missing infiltrator, lifeless, throat split open in a neat, efficient cut. Blood pooled in lazy rivers across the tile.
Brandt's grip tightened on his sword. "You—"
"Oh yes," the boy cut in lightly, flashing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "That's the man you've been looking for. His luck, I suppose, was just too bad that he crossed paths with me."
The boy's black hair framed his striking face, unnervingly composed against the carnage.
Evan Ravenshade.
For a heartbeat, the room seemed to freeze. His casual tone, his smile, his presence—it was all wrong.
"Evan Ravenshade," Brandt said finally, his voice ironclad. "Explain. Now. In detail."