Junheon! It's eight ten. The yolk's turned to concrete—up!
My eyelids weighed the gray light leaking through the window and tried to close again. For a heartbeat I drifted between dream and morning: a bus stop, a cat asleep on my notebook, a distant Lightward siren dropping a single ping and dying away. Then the door clicked, and Seo Mira swept in, swinging a pan like a baton.
"I swear your scholarship is worth more than I am. If you don't get up right now, I'm confiscating breakfast."
"A person," I said into the pillow, "should be able to wake up without hearing the word confiscate from his own sister."
"A person," Mira shot back, eyes narrowing, "who got into Novarion Institute on scholarship shouldn't be late on day one."
The line stamped itself between my ears. I snapped upright. The uniform on the chair—razor crease, white collar—looked like a promise someone else had ironed into my day. Cold water. Mirror. A kid stared back: hair mussed, faint shadows under the eyes, and, behind them, a thin stubborn bar of light. No one put that there, I told myself. I carried it here.
In the kitchen: toast (a shade too dark), an egg already turning firm, a cup of weak tea. Mira pulled one plate away from me with the graceful theft of a professional.
"Scholarship rations transfer to the younger sibling," she said. "Ancient treaty."
"I never signed it."
"You did," she said, "two years ago, when you told me, don't worry, I'll take care of you."
I laughed, finished the tea, and stood. As I reached for the door, the sentence stitched into our doormat rose again: I'll take care of you.
Outside, the morning air drew a fine, sharp line through the lungs. The low sky swung between gold and violet; above it, Shiora's dark band stretched like a trail of soot. At the building's entrance a small Lightward emblem rattled in the breeze; a motion sensor gave one polite ping and went quiet.
On the way toward her school, I noticed Mira adjusting her bag a bit too often.
"Your bag's heavy," I said.
"It isn't," she said, then let one shoulder drop a centimeter. "Maybe a little."
I slid the strap off her and onto my shoulder.
"Scholarship brothers are obligated to carry things," she said with an impressively serious face.
"I must've missed the fine print," I said. "Still counts."
The shutter at KN Bakery was half up. The baker tipped his chin through a cloud of flour; I mimed, I can come by this afternoon, boss. He nodded back. I grabbed two bottles of water; Mira, pretending not to, eyed a hot meat pastry. We walked out with it anyway, trying not to look like we had.
The neighborhood minibus pulled in. A fading Lightward sticker clung to the door; the driver called, "SS-Route, two stops." Our cards beeped. Window seats. The city was only just waking: clacking shutters, a patrol beam sketching a quick line across the next block, an old man pouring water for a cat outside his shop. Mira fogged the glass with her breath, drew a tiny heart—M + J—then wiped it away as if it had never existed.
"If they take your ID photo today, smile," she said. "On your last card you look like bad news."
"My budget doesn't cover smiles," I said. "They don't allow installments."
She snorted, and we kept talking until, two stops later, it was time to get off.
The road to Naves ran under trees; yellow leaves had laid a thin carpet on the walk. Halfway down, her hair tie loosened. She didn't notice. I stopped and tightened it.
"Dad move," she said.
"Big-brother package," I corrected.
At the start of the school street, a Lightward patrol drone drifted by; none of the kids bothered to look up. The bell was clearing its throat. Mira sped up half a beat, then slowed again to glance at me.
"Are you picking me up after school?"
"Depends. If they dismiss early, I'll swing by KN and grab you from there."
"Plan B: I grab you," she said, sticking out her tongue.
The crowd at the gate parted. A teacher waved the tide through. Mira stepped in, then doubled back and hugged me quick.
"You'll make me cry, princess," I murmured. "It's not the first time we split at this corner. Have a good one. And hey—if anyone messes with you, call the most handsome guy who's always on your side: your brother."
"See you, big bro," she said, equal parts happy and sad.
By the time I left Mira at Naves Middle School, the sky looked freshly unhooked from the dark. Three girls at the gate swarmed her; their eyes drifted—couldn't help it—over my shoulder.
"That him?" one whispered. "The brother who got a Novarion scholarship?"
"This one," Mira said, pointing at me, "is fifty percent handsome, fifty percent workaholic. My brother. He'll carry your bag and fix your notes."
A big-eyed girl bowed. "Congratulations," she said. "Novarion means… well… top tier. And you also… um…" Her sentence tangled midair. An elbow. Double blush.
"Thank you," I said, with the smile you use to catch a falling balloon without popping it. Mira's look said, you didn't embarrass me; proceed. I waved and headed for the bus.
There's no special Novarion line. The rich glide to the gate behind tinted glass. I got off at the closest stop and ran.
From the bus window I'd watched the sky cross-hatched in black over a wash of gold and violet. A patrol light flickered like teeth and vanished. No one turned. Here, small alarms dissolve into the hum of the day; surprise is impolite.
I hit the pavement and ran.
Weeds along the curb. Puddles from old rain. The strap thumped my shoulder in steady meter; somewhere under my ribs a motor of nerves and hope turned over. Metal on my tongue, a sting in my soles. Run, I told myself. This city doesn't owe you.
By the time the gates rose into view, my knees felt like chewed pretzel sticks. The clear barrier sifted sunlight and poured it soft across the campus. At the entrance stood a poised woman in a dark suit: Assistant Principal Lenny.
"Seo Junheon," she said—no inspection, just confirmation.
"That's me," I said, evening out my breath.
"Welcome to Novarion. Listen carefully. Scholarship protocol: if you score high in every course, our Staff Atelier will grant you a personal staff—yes, free—under your award."
My eyes tried to widen on their own. Lenny's face didn't move.
"Harder than it sounds," she went on. "Since we opened, students who've cleared all trials at that level? About one hundred. Maybe fewer. Trials cover arcane capacity, mathematical acuity, emotional control, endurance, ethics, resonance metrics… and more. Minimum ninety-five. Below that is the mud pool."
I nodded. The metal taste tucked a cold coin under my tongue. "Understood."
"One more thing," Lenny said, lowering her brows like an underline. "Don't make trouble. You know who recommended you. I put your name on the principal's desk myself. Don't make me regret it."
"Thank you," I said—plainly, because anything else would be wrong.
"That's enough talk. Opening ceremony will be at dismissal—the principal's ill." The smallest smile touched her lip. "Your class is first floor, A-14. Don't be late."
"Got it, boss," I said before I could stop myself, and jogged off. The corner of her mouth sharpened—maybe a smile; maybe wishful thinking.
The corridor flowed like a river of glass buttons and soft leather. I slipped through and took the stairs two at a time. A-14. Fifty pairs of eyes pivoted as I walked in. For a second I was a polar bear in a desert: wrong place, wrong coat—impossible to ignore.
Packed room. One open seat: front row, far left. I took it. Sometimes the right move is simply the visible one.
A hush. The teacher entered—black hair, eyes bright with mathematics' private pride. One motion and the room aligned.
"Everyone chose their own seats," he said. "Bad habit. We'll do lottery placement. Write complaints in erasable ink and keep them in your pocket."
Whispers orbited a single name: Seol Harin. It ran like a red bloom down the room's spine. Slips were drawn. Begging looks multiplied. Not you, a dozen eyes tried to tell me.
He read the slips without a twitch. When he reached mine, he said one word:
"Harin."
A cough like a date stuck halfway down someone's throat. A swallowed breath. I didn't move; I was already in front. Seol Harin crossed the aisle and sat beside me. The room cooled by a degree. The queen had entered; the wind changed accordingly.
She glanced at me. Whatever hunger she was used to seeing in other eyes wasn't there. Mine stayed where they belonged: respectful, curious, not clinging. A little pressure slid off her shoulders. Her face didn't change; her breathing did.
On the board, the teacher drew a single symbol in white chalk: ∮—a slender curve threaded by a short line.
"Today," he said, "Arithmancy and Resonance Calculus. At Novarion, mathematics measures not only the obedience of numbers but the phase of feeling. To call a being is to close an integral: beginning and end must bind."
The chalk didn't spark, but it felt as if it might.
"We'll relate emotional phase to mana density. Start simple:
Φ = ∬_S (∇×A)·dS—A is your vector field of intent, Φ the call's flux. If you want a call to succeed, you phase-lock intent and emotion. Mathematics invented this before you did."
The room muttered. Some students fogged over; some hid daydreams under neat notes. A long-missing gear clicked into place in my head. My pen ran.
"A small exercise," he said, sketching values into curves. "If A(x, y) = (αx, βy) and θ(t) = ωt + φ, what's the lock condition? Think it. Feel it. Write it."
Harin's wrist swept clean lines—a perfect flux surface. I wrote one sentence beside the equation: Two hearts have to say yes at the same time. Under it: ω_intent = ω_emotion.
He drifted through the rows, granting small nods. At my desk one eyebrow rose a millimeter.
"Physics arriving with poetry," he murmured. "Rare."
Harin's gaze slid to my notebook. In the margin sat a sketch of a tangerine cat. The angle of its tail looked… different from last week. Our eyes met. She didn't look away. Not looking away meant there was nothing she needed to avoid.
When he drew one more ∮, class ended. Chairs scraped in chorus. I packed quietly and headed for the cafeteria.
Under the glass dome, round tables and thin benches fanned out. A quiet corner looked like it had my name on it. Soup, bread, a small cheap cream cake—like Mira's on a good day. Steam unknotted the muscles under my jaw.
Across the room a cluster in black uniforms watched and whispered, lips curling, brows like icicles. Not loud enough to dirty the air—just enough to carry the smell: poor, fluke, pretty but empty, bought scholarship, bug.
I ate. Salt perfect. Cake tolerable. Fork down.
Seol Harin didn't detour. She set her tray with a firm thock at the nearest table, lifted her bag, and made three precise taps—tak, tak, tak—across three skulls. Glasses rattled; one slapped the floor. No one got wet. A few egos did.
Her eyes cut the group, crystal-clear.
"Words that seep through cracks," she said—neither loud nor soft—"rot fast. Rot stinks up the whole hall."
A short boy with a big voice shoved to his feet. "Who do you think—"
Chairs scraped. Volume climbed. A fight was about to find itself. Reflex pulled me up; I slipped between them.
"Enough," I said. "Not worth it."
The principal strode in on the echo—thin face, impatient lines. His scan landed on me with the laziness of a biased algorithm.
"You," he snapped. "New scholarship. Starting trouble on day one?"
"No," I said. "Only—"
Harin stepped forward, voice iced. "They started it. They talked behind my friend's back. I warned them; they lunged."
Friend hovered above us like a small shield.
"I know your family, Seol," he began, "but in my school—"
"My family," she said—calm, steady—"expects me to follow rules. I do. We expect you to do your job. Pull the footage. Write the names. Now."
The air held its breath on a wire. Then Lenny appeared in the doorway with that geometric almost-smile.
"A problem, Principal?" she asked, weight on the first word.
A beat. The principal's voice softened. "Review the footage. Identify everyone involved. The scholarship student—no penalty. For now." He turned to the group. "You. With me."
Tension drained; porcelain and sugar returned. Harin swung her bag up. I dipped my head.
"Thanks," I said.
She didn't turn. Over her shoulder: "I can't stand bad smells."
I chuckled. "You've got ketchup on your sleeve," I added. She checked—true—then attacked it with a napkin and made it worse. Lenny slid by and murmured to me, "Don't play hero in the cafeteria. Heroes read red. Your palette, for now, is blue."
"Understood," I said, smiling. "Blue."
We ducked into the restroom to clean up. I finished first and stepped out.
A cool breath had moved through the halls. The PA crackled:
"Attention. Due to an unspecified security advisory, Novarion will dismiss early today. Please proceed home promptly. Guardians have been notified. Lightward units will provide escorts at the exits."
Students flowed toward the doors. Bag on my shoulder, I ignored a few final looks from the whisper crowd. Harin emerged—annoyed at the stain, otherwise composed.
"Shall I walk you to the bus stop?" I asked, keeping my voice easy.
She gave me a short look and nodded. "Thank you. My driver is waiting. But if you'd like, we can walk to the car together."
"Walking's good," I said.
"Feet shouldn't be wasted," she replied, the corner of her mouth lifting.
We fell into step. Campus lights drew quiet shadows across the stones.
"Art and writing," she said suddenly. "They're what I like."
"What you drew on the board today was… beautiful," I said.
"Resonance graph," she corrected gently, then flashed a brief smile. "But thank you."
"Math is probably jealous of you."
"I hope secretly," she said. "If it gets obvious, class becomes unbearable."
We both laughed. The talk slid on, and I kept it simple: "I work part-time at KN Bakery, making sweets. Sometimes I help relatives with deliveries or work as a waiter when needed. And there's Mira—my little sister. I take care of her."
By the time we reached the gate, the campus was trying to leave all at once. Farther down the curb, Harin's black sedan waited with its lights low. The driver stepped forward and opened the rear door.
Harin, unruffled, slipped inside. Before the door shut, she leaned toward the window and called, "Would you like to come with us?"
"I'm grateful," I began, "but we barely know each other. Getting in now might be—"
A dull blast rolled across the grounds: BOF. The sound flattened the chatter for a heartbeat.
"You don't need to worry," Harin said evenly. "I trust you. And if you try anything foolish," she added, perfectly deadpan, "my driver will handle you before you lift a finger."
The driver lifted one hand in a calm, apologetic wave. "Please don't mind Miss Seol," he said. "She likes to scare her friends. The only accurate part is my résumé: former Naraka Hand, now retired. I serve the Seol family."
Something like a laugh slipped out of me; the nerves ebbed. "In that case… I'd like to come. One favor: could we stop at Naves Middle School first? Mira—my little sister. I can't go without her."
"Of course," Harin said, nodding once. "In times like these, helping is the least we can do."
"Destination to confirm?" the driver asked.
"Naves Middle School," I said.
"Understood," he replied. "We'll pick up your sister, then continue with Miss Seol."
I hesitated a breath longer at the open door. From inside, Harin added softly, "You don't need the stars to decide. Come."
"The sky looks harsher than usual," I muttered, stepping in, "and somehow kinder."
The door closed; the engine purred like silk. As the sedan eased away from the gate, Harin breathed on the glass and traced a small ∮—a promise more than a mark.
In the mirror the driver glanced back. "First day at Novarion?"
"Yes."
"Leaving gets harder once you've settled in."
"We'll see," I said, and the city opened in front of us.