The system message burned itself across my vision:
[You Have Altered The Story In A Unique Way. Rewards Will Be Given Accordingly.]
"…Huh?"
That was all I could manage at first. A weak, stupid little sound that slipped out before my brain caught up.
I blinked once. Twice. Slowly. Then forced myself to look back at the bulletin board. Maybe—just maybe—the words had been some kind of hallucination.
Nope.
There it was, clear as daylight, my name written in gleaming golden letters.
[Dean Mayfest – Rank #1, S-Class.]
I rubbed the back of my neck, a nervous laugh threatening to escape. This didn't make any sense. S-Class? Out of every possibility, that was the one I ended up with?
S-Class wasn't just another placement. It was the placement. The dream of every ambitious Arcadia student. Fifty seats. One class. The very best of the best—students groomed for greatness, leadership, and eventually, positions that shaped the entire continent. Its curriculum was practically alien compared to the rest of the academy.
And me? With my glorious résumé of "no mana, no bloodline, and the world's most unimpressive skill"?
Yeah. Totally believable.
I exhaled, long and heavy, dragging a hand down my face. My heart still hadn't slowed down. This is insane. What am I supposed to do?
If I had landed in E, D, C—or even B-Class—I could've made it work. Blend in, observe from a safe distance, maybe slip into the storylines of a few side characters. A-Class would've been pushing it, but still… survivable.
But S-Class? That wasn't survivable. That was a flashing neon sign saying: Hey everyone! Look at me! I'm important now!
Worst of all, I'd played NOTFH for years. Hundreds of hours. Thousands. I knew Dean Mayfest's limits better than anyone. And no matter how hard you tried, no matter how perfectly you gamed the system—Dean never, ever got into S-Class. Not once.
So why now? Why me?
I let out a humorless chuckle, then smirked faintly in spite of myself. Well… at least this means I'll run into the main cast more often.
The thought of rubbing shoulders with the most powerful students in Arcadia had its perks. Information, opportunities, maybe even shortcuts to survival.
But then another face popped into my mind—Yang. The protagonist. The ticking time bomb of death flags.
My smirk died immediately. Getting tangled with her would shave years off my life expectancy. Note to self: keep a wide berth. W country-sized berth.
I sighed again. Maybe i should've been wishing for D-Class after all.
"Damn it," I muttered under my breath. Too late to change anything now.
Straightening my back, I forced myself to breathe evenly. No use panicking in front of an audience. If I kept smiling, kept moving, maybe no one would notice the existential crisis brewing inside me.
Alright… just go with the flow. Keep a low profile. Don't stand out.
The irony of that thought, considering my name was literally glowing at the top of the board, wasn't lost on me.
Still, I shoved my hands into my pockets, plastered on a faintly anxious smile, and turned to leave. The crowd's whispers followed me, but I ignored them. Reminding myself to not trip over your own feet and maybe I'll survive the first day.
…..
Dean slipped out of the main hall, disappearing into the tide of students. He didn't notice the gaze that lingered on his back from the corner of the room.
A girl stood apart from the crowd, her platinum-blonde hair tied into a silky ponytail that shimmered faintly under the hall's enchanted lights. Her eyes—dark sea-green, sharp yet thoughtful—narrowed slightly as she tracked his movements.
Yang.
For a moment, her lips pressed together in silence. A subtle mix of curiosity and confusion flickered in her gaze, as though she were staring at a puzzle she couldn't quite solve.
"Yang!"
The call pulled her out of her thoughts. She turned to see her friends waving her over, already eager to rush toward the dormitories before all the best rooms were taken.
She hesitated, glancing once more at the spot where Dean had vanished into the sea of students. Then, after a quiet pause, Yang smiled faintly and followed her friends.
Still, as she walked, her gaze drifted back over her shoulder.
Those dark sea-green eyes held a glimmer that hadn't been there before—curiosity, yes. But also something else. Something she couldn't name.
And it was aimed at Dean Mayfest.