Mornings in the Grant Estate had evolved.
Once, they had been silent—clean, efficient, untouched by anything resembling chaos.
Now—
"…Hold still."
Lucas crouched slightly, adjusting the collar of Dwayne's uniform with surgical precision.
Dwayne stood in front of him, compliant but observant.
"You have corrected my attire three times," he noted. "The deviation is within acceptable limits."
"It is not," Lucas replied.
He smoothed the fabric again.
Then stepped back.
"…Now," Lucas said, straightening, "observe."
He shifted his expression.
Subtle.
Controlled.
His gaze sharpened, lips flattening just enough to suggest quiet danger. His posture aligned with perfect, effortless dominance.
The Grant family glare.
It was not loud.
It did not need to be.
It simply was—a presence that warned before words were necessary.
"Replicate it," Lucas instructed.
Dwayne nodded.
Then—
He frowned.
Not menacing.
Not intimidating.
Just—
Deeply thoughtful.
Like a scholar trying to solve an especially stubborn equation.
Lucas stared.
"…You look like you are calculating taxes."
"…I am attempting to simulate hostility," Dwayne replied.
"Less calculation. More… inevitability."
Dwayne adjusted his expression again.
Slightly narrowed eyes.
A more rigid stance.
Still—
Adorable.
Lucas turned away.
"…Acceptable," he said, voice perfectly neutral.
Internally—
Failure.
Absolute failure.
"I have prepared something," Lucas added, reaching into his coat.
He produced a pen.
Simple.
Silver.
Elegant.
He handed it to Dwayne.
"For taking notes."
Dwayne took it.
Turned it slightly.
"…The mana flow is unusually stable," he observed. "This is not a standard writing instrument."
Lucas clasped his hands behind his back.
"It is efficient."
Internally:
It is the most advanced mana-conduit ever commissioned. It can channel, stabilize, and amplify output with near-zero loss. It is also aesthetically perfect.
Dwayne nodded once.
"…Acceptable."
They moved toward the carriage.
As it began to roll away—
Lucas watched him.
Small figure.
Straight posture.
Holding that pen like it was just another tool.
…He adjusted his collar properly today.
A quiet thought.
Then another.
…He didn't trip on the steps.
Lucas exhaled slowly.
His hobby—
His very private, very controlled appreciation for small, precise, pleasing things—
Had narrowed.
Entirely.
To one variable.
---
The training grounds buzzed with anticipation.
Today was sparring day.
Children stood in pairs, wooden swords in hand, each one eager to prove something—strength, skill, or simply that they could swing harder than the next person.
Elton Ren moved among them like a quiet current.
Controlled.
Precise.
Every step measured.
The instructor nodded approvingly.
Then—
"Dwayne Grant."
A murmur passed through the students.
"And—Rhett Vil Lor."
The name carried weight.
Rhett stepped forward.
Larger than most. Broader. Louder.
He cracked his neck slightly, gripping his wooden sword with visible confidence.
"…You're the weird one," Rhett said.
Dwayne looked at him.
"…Define 'weird.'"
"Annoying," Rhett clarified. "And small."
"…Size is a variable, not a flaw."
Rhett snorted.
"Try not to cry."
Dwayne said nothing.
They took their positions.
"Begin!"
Rhett charged immediately.
Loud.
Forceful.
Unrefined.
From the outside, it looked overwhelming.
From Dwayne's perspective—
It slowed.
Not time itself—
But perception.
The world restructured.
Angles.
Vectors.
Force distribution.
Force equals mass times acceleration.
Rhett's mass: significant.
Acceleration: excessive.
Balance point: unstable.
Center of gravity—
Too far forward.
His roar—
A waste.
Energy misallocated to vocalization.
Trajectory predictable.
Dwayne stood still.
He did not need to move yet.
Not until—
Now.
A step.
Two inches.
Left.
Minimal.
Precise.
Rhett's strike cut through empty air.
Momentum carried him forward—
Too far.
Too fast.
Dwayne extended his foot.
Light.
Barely there.
A tap.
Right at the heel.
A disruption.
A shift.
Rhett's balance collapsed.
He fell.
Hard.
Face-first into the dirt.
Silence.
Dust rose slowly.
Dwayne looked down at him.
"Your kinetic energy was inefficiently distributed," he said. "It was a very noisy failure."
A few students gasped.
Others—
Laughed.
Rhett pushed himself up, face red—not from injury, but from humiliation.
"…Do it again," Elton said quietly from the side.
Dwayne glanced at him.
"…You wish to replicate the outcome?"
"I want to understand it."
Dwayne nodded.
"…Acceptable."
---
It did not end there.
It never did.
After the spar, Rhett's friends approached.
Three of them.
Larger.
Louder.
Less subtle.
"You think you're smart?" one of them said.
Dwayne observed.
Distance between opponents: two meters.
Wind direction: negligible.
Boot weight: moderate.
Escape routes—
Left: blocked.
Right: inefficient.
Forward: confrontation required.
Backward—
Before he could finalize—
"HEY!"
Lili Hughes arrived like a storm made of ribbons and indignation.
She planted herself directly in front of Dwayne.
Hands on hips.
"No picking on him!"
The boys blinked.
"…Move," one said.
"No!"
Lili reached into her bag.
Pulled out—
A handful of sticky honey sweets.
Weapons.
"You touch him," she said, narrowing her eyes, "and I will make sure you never get help with your homework again."
They hesitated.
"You think you can pass mid-terms on your own?" she pressed. "Do you even know what 'mid-term' means?"
Silence.
A shift.
"Because he does," she added, jerking her thumb at Dwayne. "And if you make him mad, he won't help you. Then what? Repeat Year One?"
That landed.
Harder than any sword.
The boys glanced at each other.
Uncertainty.
Fear—not of strength, but of consequence.
"…Let's go," one muttered.
They backed off.
Retreated.
Defeated.
Dwayne watched.
Fascinated.
"…You utilized social leverage," he said.
"Of course I did," Lili replied, turning to him with a grin. "That's how you win fights without fighting."
"…High-frequency vocalization can function as a deterrent," Dwayne murmured.
"…I'll take that as a compliment."
---
"Come on!"
"I am already moving."
"No, you're walking, not coming!"
By the end of the day, Dwayne had been relocated—again.
This time—
To the library.
A vast, quiet space filled with towering shelves and filtered light.
Edgar arrived with snacks.
Elton took a position near the entrance, silent but alert.
Lili dropped into a chair dramatically.
"We're studying!"
"…This was not scheduled," Dwayne said.
"It is now!"
Dwayne sat.
Resigned.
Then—
He opened a book.
And began.
"The fundamental issue," he said, "is that mana theory is taught in fragmented segments. This reduces comprehension."
Edgar leaned forward.
"So… simpler?"
"Yes."
Dwayne flipped a page.
"Observe."
He broke it down.
Step by step.
Clear.
Logical.
Connected.
For the first time—
The others followed.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
"…Oh," Edgar said. "That makes sense."
Elton nodded.
"…Continue."
Lili blinked.
"…Wait—I get it too?"
Dwayne paused.
Looked at them.
His heart rate—
Stable.
Seventy BPM.
No stress spike.
No irritation.
Just—
…Something.
"This environment," he said slowly, "is… acceptable."
Lili beamed.
"That means he likes us!"
"…I did not state that."
"You totally did."
---
Far from the Academy—
In the Grant Estate—
Lucas sat at his desk.
A war map lay before him.
Detailed.
Strategic.
Ignored.
Instead—
He held a small sheet of paper.
Dwayne's.
A drawing.
Not of people.
Not of landscapes.
But of—
Perfect geometry.
Lines intersecting with flawless precision.
A graph so exact it was almost art.
Lucas traced one line lightly.
"…Efficient," he murmured.
A knock.
"Enter."
A servant bowed.
"Your Grace, a message from the palace."
Lucas read it.
Once.
Then again.
His expression did not change.
But something in the air—
Sharpened.
"The Tharis delegation," he said quietly.
Dragons.
"…They will be visiting the Academy."
The servant hesitated.
"They are seeking… high-mana individuals."
Lucas stood.
Slowly.
Carefully placing the drawing down.
"…Understood."
The servant left.
Silence returned.
Lucas looked at the paper again.
At the precise lines.
The quiet brilliance.
Then—
His eyes darkened.
"No one," he said softly, "takes my tiny scholar."
Not the nobles.
Not the crown.
Not even—
A Dragon.