I'll be honest, Arcadia's hallways are way too damn big. Every hallway looks the same: pristine stone walls, the faint shimmer of enchantments humming quietly, and portraits of old mages glaring down like they're judging me for being lost.
Yeah. Lost.
I tugged at my collar and tried not to look like some clueless idiot while wandering. My brilliant plan? Trail behind a group of guys who looked like they knew where they were going. Smooth, right? Better than stopping someone just to ask, "Hey, where do the losers sleep?" With my reputation? I'd rather choke on chalk dust than deal with that embarrassment.
Thankfully, luck decided to throw me a bone. The group led me straight to the boys' dormitory. Relief washed over me when I stepped inside. Right at the entrance was a bulletin board plastered with student names and their assigned rooms.
I scanned the list until my eyes landed on my name: Dean Mayfest – Room 007, Second Floor.
"…Room 007?" I muttered, then chuckled under my breath. "Figures. Guess I'm Agent Mayfest now. Where's my license to kill when I need it?"
The joke eased the tension in my shoulders as I made my way upstairs. Room 007. Kinda stylish, if I ignored the fact that my luck's more rotten than fresh milk in summer.
The best part? I didn't have to share with anyone. Thank the gods. One roommate is all it would've taken for me to be socially executed on day one. I mean, who'd want to bunk with Arcadia's most infamous reject? Exactly. No one.
Still… the thought lingered. No friends, no connections. On paper, depressing. But me? I've got a little more mileage in my head than the sixteen-year-old shell I'm wearing. Loneliness isn't enough to crack me.
At least, that's what I told myself.
…..
Meanwhile, across the campus in the female dormitories, a very different atmosphere brewed.
Inside a luxuriously furnished room, Rumia Von Yuraveil stood stiffly, her chin dipped low. Before her stood a woman dressed in a black-and-white gown that was almost too elegant for the dorms. The dress clung gracefully at the waist, flaring with layered skirts trimmed in silver lace. Her sleeves tapered like flowing ribbons, and the faint shimmer of mana embroidered the fabric itself.
Her hair was a silky fog-black streaked with white, flowing like cascading mist down her back. But it was her eyes that stole the air from the room—pristine gold, cold and unblinking.
Helen Von Yuraveil. Rumia's aunt.
"Do you know why I came here?" Helen's voice sliced like glass against stone, arms crossed tightly against her chest.
Rumia's lips trembled, her voice barely more than a whisper. "…Because I failed to answer the three questions on the exam…"
Helen scoffed. "At least you're not completely blind to your incompetence."
She stepped closer, her gloved hand shooting out. Fingers tangled cruelly in Rumia's hair, yanking her head upward until their gazes locked.
Slap!
The sound echoed through the room as Helen's hand struck her niece's cheek. Rumia stumbled, the sharp sting forcing her eyes wide. But Helen's grip didn't falter—she held her steady by the hair, pulling her upright as though refusing to let her dignity fall to the floor.
"The Yuraveil name is not one to be sullied," Helen hissed. "And yet, here you are. Tell me, Rumia, how do you intend to repair this humiliation?"
"I…" Rumia's golden eyes watered, her voice trembling. "…I'll do better. I promise. I won't shame our name again."
Helen studied her for a long, suffocating moment. Then she clicked her tongue and flicked her wrist, releasing her hold. Rumia stumbled back, catching herself before she fell completely.
Her aunt turned toward the door, hand on the handle, but stopped. She glanced over her shoulder, her golden eyes as sharp as a blade.
"Do not call me aunt in Arcadia. Here, I am Professor Helen Von Yuraveil. And I will not allow myself to be associated with failure."
The door slammed shut behind her.
Silence swallowed the room.
Rumia's fingers brushed the sting on her cheek, but it wasn't the slap that burned most—it was the weight pressing against her heart.
Why? she thought bitterly, staring at her reflection in the small mirror on her desk. Black silk hair, golden eyes, a beauty by anyone else's measure… yet the reflection blurred with falling tears.
She had done everything asked of her. She had lived and trained the way she was told. And still—still she was compared to others.
Her thoughts lingered to when she was searching for her name and score at the bulletin board in the main hall. There two names stood out the most to her.
Kamel Ar Veilworth, and Dean Mayfest.
The dusghter of a failed duchy scored higher than me? And a boy— a commomer—stood fkrst in S-Class?
Her jaw clenched, lips curling into a trembling grimace. It wasn't fair.
"…Why does fate insist on being so cruel to me?" she whispered, a sad smile tugging at her lips.
...
By the time I made it to the lecture hall, it was already buzzing. Students filled the rows, talking and laughing like they'd all known each other for years. Cliques were forming faster than a mana shield in battle.
And me? Yeah, you guessed it. I was the lone island.
I dropped into a seat and sighed. Out of all the classes, why did S-Class feel like a convention for extroverts?
No one came near me. Not a single "hey, can I sit here?" Not even a pity wave. Honestly, I didn't blame them. My name wasn't exactly painted in gold right now.
Then the whispers started.
"…Can't believe he made it in…"
"…Doesn't make sense…"
"…Parents are furious, you know. Protesting a commoner being here."
"…Bet he begged the faculty…"
I buried my face in my arms. Great. Day one and I'm already the class mascot for undeserved pity mixed with disgust. An Outcast, thy name is Dean Mayfest.
But as much as it stung, I got it. These kids had trained their entire lives just for the chance to sit in this room. Me? The supposed no-mana commoner? I was basically the academy's biggest contradiction.
I yawned, leaning against my palm, eyes wandering toward the window. Still… Arcadia wasn't about names or titles. It was about performance. Grades, battles, skill. S-Class wasn't invincible—anyone could drop down a tier. And some would.
In fact, I remembered one particular event in NOTFH: some hotshot in A-Class eventually swapped into S-Class while another unlucky student got bumped down. The details were fuzzy, but it was proof that Arcadia ran on brutal meritocracy.
My eyes drifted back inside, scanning the rows. Familiar faces. Characters I'd spent years clicking through in the game, now breathing, talking, existing right here. Future legends. Some heroes. Some traitors.
And then—her.
Yang.
Platinum-blonde ponytail. Sea-green eyes. The protagonist herself. Laughing with her friends, completely oblivious to the fact she'd one day carry this world's weight on her shoulders.
I prayed she was up for the job. Because if she wasn't? We were all doomed.
The door creaked open.
A man walked in, his presence snapping the chatter into silence like a whip. My stomach dropped.
Youve gotta be kidding me.
Professor Argois Threpter.
Our eyes met. His sharp red gaze cut into me, and I looked away instantly, muttering curses under my breath. Just being looked at by him made me feel like a bug under a boot.
He strode to the podium, set a book down, and swept the class with his glare.
"Sit. Quiet."
The room froze. You could hear a pin drop.
Argois cleared his throat. "Most of you already know me by name. Regardless, formalities matter. From today forward, I will be the instructor overseeing Class S."