"What the fuck—did Lucas just blow them off?"
I blinked, staring at the smoking crater where Lacey and the Tech had been standing just seconds ago.
The silence afterward wasn't peaceful—it was heavy, ringing in my ears with the kind of tension that made you wonder if you'd just witnessed a turning point in the story.
Protagonists weren't supposed to do this. They were supposed to get beaten to the brink of death, unlock a hidden power, and then win in a flashy, heroic comeback. That's how the script went. But Lucas? He just detonated them out of existence like he skipped three arcs ahead.
And now he was still standing—barely. A mess of blood, torn clothes, bruises, but still standing. His eyes were sharp, steady, disturbingly clear. Not the kind of clarity you want aimed directly at you.
"Now it's just you and me." He raised his sword, blood dripping down its edge. His gaze shifted—not at me, but at the sack clutched in my arms. His voice was steady, deliberate. "No more lies. No more excuses. Show me what's inside."
Great. Absolutely fantastic. Out of everyone, he had to look convincingly protagonist-like at this exact moment.
Focused eyes, blood painting him like some tragic hero. I'd bullied this guy before, but right now? He didn't look like someone you could bully. He looked like someone who'd cut you down and then monologue about justice while the camera zoomed in.
I forced a laugh. "H-hey, man. Maybe we can talk this out. There's been some kind of… uh, misunderstanding."
His voice came back disturbingly calm. "Yes, I'll listen. I'll clear up the misunderstanding. So why don't you set the sack down… and walk over here?"
Yep. Totally rational. Totally sane. Not at all sounding like the start of an execution.
Fuck this. I'm running.
I bolted, sack still clutched to my chest. The plan—what was left of it—was simple: get the hell out before Lucas stabbed me, the teachers showed up, or both.
"Hey! Where are you going?" Lucas shouted behind me. His footsteps pounded against the ground, too close for comfort. "Didn't you want to clear things up? I promise—I'll listen to everything. There's even a bench over there. We can sit, relax, and have a nice long chat!"
Yeah. Sure. A "chat." With your sword.
I ran harder.
The explosion wasn't just flashy—it cleared the crystalline dust in the air and, worse, announced our position to every single teacher. I could practically imagine the disciplinary committee sharpening their expulsion papers.
The whole point was to recreate a classic side plot—kidnap the elf princess, stir some political drama, and live out that infamous scene from Transmigrating as an Extra Third-Rate Villain.
I wanted to be the extra who knew the plot, who slid in, helped the villains, and then betrayed them at the most dramatic moment to steal the profit and the spotlight. A brilliant, low-risk, high-reward move intended to give a satisfying narrative payoff that the original author failed to deliver when they dropped the novel.
But the risk was astronomical now.
I'm fleeing the scene of a mana explosion, clutching the primary target, while being pursued by a protagonist—Lucas—who just unlocked the "Unstoppable Righteous Fury" ability.
And if they caught me? I was done. I wasn't just "a kid who messed up." I was a noble. My family's name would get dragged into it. They'd call it a conspiracy, maybe even treason. My father didn't even know I was out here playing pretend-terrorist.
I risked everything for a piece of meta-fiction. The urge to complete the scene, to get that satisfying narrative payoff, was instantly destroyed by the primal instinct for survival. If I get caught with the Princess, the sack, and the bloody, unconscious bodies of two conspirators who just blew up a dormitory wall, my family name is finished. I'm looking at treason, permanent exile, or worse.
The novel was dropped because the author wrote themselves into a corner.
And now, I've done the exact same, stupid thing. I had to get away, and right now, the only direction was out.
This was supposed to be a low-stakes prank, not a full-blown manhunt!
And the elf princess… yeah, that didn't help either.
When the elves first joined the Academy, things were tense. Old grudges, old blood, the usual. A few students even tried stupid pranks, and the Academy made an example of them—straight-up expelled, no hesitation. That was the treaty at work: no second chances, no "boys will be boys."
After that, everyone learned real quick. No bullying the elves. No cheap tricks. Even snide comments got shut down hard.
And then, over time… well, the hatred melted. Or maybe it just got outshined by something stronger: teenage hormones.
The elf princess was—let's just say—objectively, unfairly, dangerously beautiful. People went from "damn elves" to "damn, elf." Clubs formed. Fan clubs. By the midterm, half the guys were simping hard, and the other half were too scared to admit they were.
Logic? Gone. History? Forgotten. She was hot enough to rewrite politics.
And now that very "candy for the eyes" was in my arms, squirming inside this sack like a furious cat. If I got caught with her? This wouldn't just ruin me. It would ruin generations of my family.
Yeah. Sweet on the outside, sure. But if this candy got me caught, it was going to taste like poison.
And judging by Lucas's voice getting closer, I was already choking.
"What should I do Fight him? Absolutely not."
I couldn't carry the princess—who felt less like a regal elven symbol and more like a bag of oddly precious bowling balls—and fight effectively, especially against Lucas.
The guy was running on a cocktail of righteous fury and self-pity, making him unpredictable and terrifying. If I put the sack down, I knew I'd never get it back; that whole dramatic leap-from-the-window to save her would become the world's most embarrassing footnote.
Think, Evan, think! What would a third-rate villain forget to ditch?
I frantically checked the pockets of the gear I'd stolen.
First pocket: I pulled out a small foil packet. A condom. "What the fuck? A virgin-faced little lackey like him actually had one of these? Was he planning to celebrate?"
I tossed it onto the ground in disgust.
"What'd you throw off, man? Don't litter! What even is that?" Lucas yelled, still slightly dazed but closing the distance.
"Well, that's a thing your dad should have used so we wouldn't be having this conversation!" I screamed back, running and rummaging desperately.
Search! Please, something useful, God!
The next pocket delivered. I pulled out two small crystal balls with magic runes. One was for Smoke, the other for Flash. Standard-issue utility artifacts. My ticket out of this mess.
"You like plot devices, Lucas? Have some plot devices!" I yelled, winding up and hurling them both behind me without looking.
BOOM!
The Flash crystal detonated first—a blinding white light that probably cured a few latent cataracts. The Smoke crystal followed instantly, enveloping the area in a thick, choking gray cloud that smelled vaguely of burnt sage and desperation.
I heard Lucas cough, then let out a sound of pure, frustrated indignation. "You're fighting dirty! That's not how the story goes!"
"I used your own spell, plotter! And I'm writing my own damn ending!" I retorted, pumping my legs harder, clutching the princess-sack tight, and disappearing into the gloriously thick, narrative-breaking fog.
I ran and ran, my lungs burning, the sack of precious cargo feeling heavier with every stride. My sole focus was the escape point, the rendezvous with the Mech and Electrician. They were my last hope.
I allowed myself to breathe only when I saw their silhouettes, huddled near the perimeter wall.
"Hey, Newbie! What was that explosion sound just now?" the Mech hissed, his voice riddled with confusion.
"That's the sound of our plan getting ruined," I panted, skidding to a halt.
"What? How?"
"There's a boy—a freak boy—who just boom-boomed off Lacey and Tech and is chasing me. The explosion has gotten the teachers, the guards, and the authority alerted! We have what we came for, so we better get the fuck out! Where's the Leader? He has to be coming!"
The Electrician scoffed. "Are you seriously telling us to run away from a boy?"
"No! I'm telling you we're compromised! We need to move! The Leader must be coming. Oh, speak of the devil..."
I looked in their direction and saw a figure, cloaked in shadow but radiating a distinct, familiar commanding aura, walking swiftly toward us.
"What the fuck! You guys have messed up, huh? What the fuck did you explode off to get the entire school to hear?" the figure—the supposed Leader—demanded, his voice sharp with manufactured fury.
"No, Leader! Newbie just informed us that there's some brat who did it, not knowing the details. He said he blew off Lacey and Tech as well," the Mech rushed to explain, desperate to deflect blame.
"A student? How did he even do that?" the figure asked, his eyes immediately snapping to me. "Okay, you tell me in detail what happened, and what's inside that sack you carry, huh?"
I felt a cold dread clench my stomach. The calm in his voice was chillingly wrong. "Okay, the thing is, me along—" I halted the rushed confession, the final question echoing in my mind.
"Hey, Leader, what did you ask just now at the end?" I asked, my voice tight and strained.
"I asked what's inside the sack you carry," he repeated, his composure perfect, too perfect.
The blood drained from my face. "Who the fuck are you?" The real Leader would already know the sack held the elf princess. There was no reason for him to ask.
"Hey, Newbie, what are you saying?" the Mech asked, confused by my sudden, fatal shift in focus.
"I'm saying what a sane person should say! The Leader already knows what's inside that sack! Why else would he ask?!" I shot back.
The realization hit the Mech and Electrician, their suspicion instantly turning to caution, then paralyzing fear.
"Well, well. It seems my sudden slip wasn't effective," the man sighed, his voice dropping, losing its commanding edge and becoming something cold and clinical. "I was just trying to get more information, but... Let's go with the classic one: capture them, then extract the information."
As he spoke, the magical disguise over him dissolved with a brief, agonizing pulse of light, revealing a different, familiar, terrifying face.
It was Brandt Stoneborn—one of the academy's instructors.
"Hah! You're quite the sharp one to figure that out, huh? Didn't even take more time," Brandt sneered, his true expression a mask of ruthless calculation.
Before I could even process the shock of the double-betrayal, a deeper shadow swallowed the others. More figures—silent—stepped out, completing a suffocating circle around us.
"But the timing as well got unlucky for you, third-rate." The voice that spoke now was different again, deeper, resonating with a terrifying, absolute power.
I looked over and saw him: Abraham. He walked out of the darkness with a dead-serious face, his hands slick with fresh blood. And hanging limply in his grip was the very dead body of the original crew's Leader.
"This man didn't talk when I asked him nicely," Abraham said, his gaze fixed on me with chilling disdain. "I thought he was maybe a lackey doing side work, so I finished him off quickly, not knowing that this pathetic, weak man was actually their Leader. What a shame." He tossed the corpse aside like refuse.
A wave of pure, paralyzing dread washed over me. The teachers weren't just alerted—they were already here, and they were moving with murderous efficiency.
"Now that the Brandt disguise is finished, let's be done with these pests," Abraham declared, his eyes filling with cold, ruthless disdain.
The circle tightened. I was caught between two ruthless factions, clutching the sack, the single most valuable target in the world.
Now it all comes to this. No escape. Fully captured, and for the fuck of what? All this for fulfilling my sick wish to recreate a scene from a dropped novel.
Fuck that. Why did I even do that? The original author had already worked on more novels, dropped those too, so why was I so obsessed over this particular loose end? I had dug my own grave.
Fuck that. I didn't come here to die for a dropped plotline.
I threw the sack.
It skidded across the flagstones and tumbled open like a ridiculous, horrifying reveal.
The princess fell out—not a bannered symbol of treaty and peace but a small, furious, motion—Seraphina Sylwen Faeloria, wrapped in silk. Her white hair was a tide across the stone, her eyes slitting open in instant, drowsy alarm, still hazy from the drug dust.
"What!?" Abraham's roar cut the air. He'd been a wall of cold fury until that instant; then his face fractured into something primal and feral. "Stop! Stop—no, that's a student—no—Seraphina?!" The single name hit the courtyard like an order to kill.
Brandt's hand went to the weave at his waist—an almost polite movement, like he was straightening a bow tie before delivering a verdict. "You brought the princess into this," he said, quiet as a guillotine. "You brought the treaty into filth."
My mouth was a dry cave. The world narrowed to the line of Abraham's jaw and the small, beating, terrified movements of the princess on the ground.
"So that's how you think it ends," Abraham spat, mana flaring around his palms until the morning air tasted metallic. "You violate the academy. You strike at our wards. You touch the jewel of our fragile peace. Mercy is not on the menu." His voice had the slow, patient cruelty of a sentence being read aloud.
"Yeah? And fuck you for your sanctimonious shit! You shouldn't be blabbering if you let us in so easily.Maybe the only one who deserves a lecture here is you." I snapped, feeling utterly unmasked—scared, stupid, and furious. I did not have a plan anymore.
Impulse took over where planning failed. I reached for the only thing I still controlled: a thin dagger I'd palmed from the newbie's belt.
I lunged forward.
There's something ridiculous about the way panic focuses you. My mind narrowed to a single, insane axis: stop them taking the princess; force a decision; make chaos enough that maybe—maybe—no single person could make me pay for this. I pressed the dagger to the delicate hollow of her throat, fingers white on the hilt, breath ragged.
"Put it down." Brandt's voice was a soft thing, dangerous because it didn't need to shout. "Put the dagger down, and we will hear you out."
Abraham's boots thudded forward a pace, and yet his steps hesitated. I saw it then: a shadow that flickered behind his restraint, a momentary human second where he considered. Not mercy. Calculation. He was buying time to decide how cleanly to end us.
"For the love of everything," the Mech hissed, his voice trembling, "drop it."
I didn't. I couldn't. The knife was cold but real. I wanted the shock of it to freeze the world, to force a rerouting of consequence, to show—something.
Whatever courage I had left stemmed from a darker seam than heroism: the pure, frantic need to be the one who decided the ending.
""Do it," Abraham said, the single word a low, dangerous chord of both an order and a final dare. "Kill her and see what happens."
I saw their faces tighten—Brandt's eyes were sharp, already calculating the legal and political ruin this could spawn, but his control was iron. The Mech and the Electrician were stunned, frozen in the realization we had failed.
The other instructors' masks of control slid toward raw, consuming rage. The courtyard felt like the final, agonizing moment right before the blade drops on the gallows.
I pressed the dagger. The girl's eyes, wide and luminous, tracked the movement, not with terror, but with a vacant, hazy confusion. She was still too drowsy, too far gone from the crystalline powder, to fully grasp the mortal danger—a fragile, drunken state of beautiful ignorance.
Then, I drew the blade across the throat.
The move was quick, clean, and utterly silent—a flash of cold steel against warm, delicate skin. There was no theatrical scream, only a terrible, soft, almost puzzled sigh that escaped the princess's lips as her life source was severed. It was the sound of a question left forever unanswered.
The sound that came from me was not a whisper and not a cry. It was a terrible, absurd noise—a strangled, gasping expulsion of air that was half triumph, half self-hate—because I had done the insane, the irreversible.
The princess collapsed into me like a snapped statue. Blood immediately seamed the delicate silk of her dress.
The ground drank deep, the flagstones blooming under her with a stain of crimson that would never be wiped clean.
For a heartbeat, the world stopped. They hadn't believed it. No one had believed it.
"NO—"
The unified shout from the instructors was seismic, a wave of pure, guttural disbelief and fury that finally broke the professional veneer of the academy.
Brandt's face contorted into utter horror—the political disaster was now a reality.
Abraham's stance fractured; he broke into a raw, uncaged motion, his fury now focused entirely on my destruction. Even the Mech and the Electrician, my supposed allies, recoiled, their shock palpable.
Who kills the one thing you can negotiate with? No sane person. And that was the point.
Everything narrowed to the instant Abraham shoved off. He was no longer an instructor; he was a storm of focused, lethal purpose.
I expected the world to end there: a palm through my sternum, a final, cleaving strike. The courtyard filled with the sound of boots and the hot, coppery smell of mana—but the instant before his hand closed, something else happened.
The charging world seemed to hit a wall.
A voice, cold, synthetic, and utterly impossible, hacked through the air, overriding the roar of rage and the smell of blood.
WARNING. WARNING.
THE SCENARIO IS BROKEN.
THE MAIN HEROINE IS DEAD.
I don't know whether my grin was a reflex or a symptom of madness. The world had tipped into something else—mechanical, clinical, a game-master's calm intruding on the raw human panic. Around us, the air spat like a wire under tension: tiny sparks of light crawling across the flagstones, a pressure that made my teeth ache.
Abraham's hand was a breath from my throat. Brandt's shadow was a blade across the morning. I tasted metal and ozone and the faint echo of something cold and calculated grinning in the sky.
And then—
Time folded.