Harem System in an Elite Academy

There are moments when peace feels heavier than war.

When everything goes quiet, and you're left with the echoes of what you've done — or failed to do.

Lately, the academy feels too calm. Classes resumed, corridors filled again, and the usual noise returned: students laughing, gossip spreading, boots echoing on the tiles. It's supposed to be normal, but something about it feels artificial. Like the world is pretending to breathe while holding its lungs full of smoke.

I've seen that kind of calm before — the kind that comes after storms. It doesn't mean safety. It means exhaustion. Everyone's pretending the worst is behind us, but deep down, we all know the cracks are still there, waiting.

Maybe that's why I've been quieter than usual. Maybe because silence is the only thing that still feels honest

Amelia hasn't noticed yet, or maybe she has and chooses not to mention it.

Since the karaoke night, she's been more open, more steady. The tension that used to define her posture has softened. She laughs more, she listens longer. The distance between her and the others is shrinking, little by little.

I'm glad for that. Truly.

But sometimes, when I see her smile now, there's a strange feeling that runs through me — relief mixed with guilt. Because while she's beginning to heal, I'm starting to realize how much of what I've done to protect her wasn't entirely selfless.

I didn't step in to clear her name just because it was right. I did it because I couldn't stand to see another person silenced by lies.

That's the truth I don't say out loud.

It wasn't just about justice — it was about control. About proving to myself that I could fix something.

Maybe that's what bothers me now. The realization that I needed her redemption as much as she did.

People like to think of heroes as saviors. But saving people isn't clean. It's messy, selfish, confusing. You end up mixing your reasons until even you can't tell if you acted out of compassion or pride.

I've always had that problem.

When I help someone, there's always a quiet voice in the back of my mind whispering, *"You're doing this because you couldn't save yourself back then."*

It's an old thought — one that doesn't fade no matter how much I try to drown it out.

And when I look at Amelia now, that voice grows louder. Because every step she takes toward peace reminds me how far I've drifted from my own.

There's a part of me that envies her resilience.

She went through humiliation, accusation, isolation — and still came back to teach with that calm expression, as if nothing could shake her anymore. She's learning how to live again without needing everyone's approval.

I can't do that.

Even now, every time I make a decision, I measure it against outcomes, consequences, optics. I think in calculations, not emotions. It's useful in combat, in investigation, in leadership — but in life, it's exhausting.

People think being calm means being composed. But sometimes calm is just another word for numb.

And I've been numb for so long that I've forgotten what genuine emotion feels like.

Maybe that's why I admire Amelia's small moments of feeling — her hesitation, her laughter, her visible relief. They remind me that being alive isn't just about surviving the next conflict. It's about noticing when you're no longer fighting.

Lucy said something a few days ago that stuck with me.

We were walking to the west wing when she said, "You ever notice how quiet you get after things settle? Like you're waiting for the next hit?"

She said it half-jokingly, but it landed harder than she knew.

Because she was right. That's exactly what I do.

It's not that I want chaos. It's that I don't know who I am without it.

The academy's calm doesn't feel like rest to me — it feels like suspense. Like standing in the middle of a field and knowing the storm's only paused to gather more power.

Maybe that's paranoia. Or maybe it's instinct.

Either way, it keeps me from sleeping well.

The past few nights, I've been waking up earlier than usual. Sometimes before dawn, before even the cleaning wards activate. The sky outside the dorm window is always half-dark, that strange bluish shade that makes the world look hollow.

That's when I think most clearly.

That's when I start talking to myself in my head, going over everything that's happened, everything I've done, everything I've ignored.

Amelia's healing. Lucy and Liza are back to their usual rhythm. Garron's name is forgotten. The council's silent. Regulus has vanished into disciplinary proceedings that no one wants to discuss.

By all accounts, things are improving.

But if that's true, why does it feel like I'm the only one still waiting for something to go wrong?

I used to think distrust was a curse. Now I think it's just a kind of armor you grow too comfortable wearing.

When Amelia stopped distrusting me, I thought I'd feel lighter too. But instead, I felt exposed. Because without her suspicion reflecting mine, I had to face my own.

All this time, I've been moving like a soldier — careful, calculated, detached. I thought it made me efficient. I thought it protected me from being hurt again. But it's not protection. It's isolation disguised as focus.

Amelia's starting to shed that.

I'm still holding on to it like a lifeline.

It's ironic. The one person who had every reason not to trust is learning how to again — and I, the one who claimed to guide her, still can't.

Sometimes I wonder if this is what maturity actually looks like — not wisdom, but exhaustion.

Learning the limits of what you can fix. Accepting that some scars aren't supposed to close neatly.

I keep catching myself staring at the small things lately.

The way sunlight filters through the classroom windows. The way dust glows in the air when mana currents shift. The faint echo of laughter from a hallway I'm not part of.

These tiny, useless moments.

I never paid attention to them before. But now, they feel like proof that time's moving on without me.

Everyone's healing in their own way, finding small joys again. And I'm standing still, still waiting for permission to stop fighting.

The truth is, I don't know how to live quietly.

Last night, I dreamt of the first day I came to this academy.

The stone gates, the banners, the blinding sun.

Everyone walking with purpose. Everyone knowing where they belonged.

And me — standing there, pretending I did too.

I remember that first conversation with the instructor who told me I'd "adjust eventually." I didn't. I just learned how to blend in.

You can't adjust when your instincts are always screaming that something's off.

That feeling never left. Not during my first assignment, not during investigations, not even now.

The only time it ever eased was when I started focusing on Amelia's case.

That's the irony. Helping her gave me direction again. And now that she's getting better, I'm the one who feels adrift.

Lucy and Liza wouldn't understand that.

They're good at living in the present.

Lucy talks about the future like it's a promise waiting to be fulfilled. Liza treats every day like it's part of some grand adventure.

I used to envy them for that too.

Now I just find it distant.

They don't carry the same weight. They don't look at the world wondering who's lying. They don't question every act of kindness.

I wish I could be like them, even for a day — to believe that peace can last without suspicion.

But that kind of hope feels dangerous. Hope blinds you faster than fear ever could.

Amelia once told me that she used to hate hope.

She said it was because hope made her wait for things that never came.

I didn't argue with her then, because I agreed.

But lately, I think I understand what she really meant. She didn't hate hope itself — she hated dependence. She hated having to rely on people who disappointed her.

Now that she's learning to trust again, she's also learning to hope again — carefully, quietly.

I can see it in the way she talks to students, the way she plans lessons for next week like she believes she'll still be here to teach them.

That's what real hope looks like. Not grand dreams, but simple continuity.

And watching her embrace that makes me feel something close to pride.

Maybe that's why I haven't left.

There was a time when I considered it — transferring, taking an independent posting, anything to escape this endless loop of half-truths and bureaucracy.

But something kept me here.

At first, I thought it was duty. Then, habit. Now, I think it's because leaving would feel like abandoning something unfinished.

Amelia's recovery isn't the end of the story. It's the start of something else — proof that maybe this place isn't entirely corrupt, that people can still change.

If she can rebuild, maybe the academy can too.

And maybe I can, even if it takes longer.

There's one image that keeps repeating in my mind — the way she looked on stage that night, standing under dim lights, singing like she wasn't afraid anymore.

That image burns itself into my memory because it contradicts everything I thought I knew about strength.

Strength isn't loud. It isn't defiant.

Sometimes it's just having the courage to be seen again after being shamed.

I keep thinking about that. About what it takes to face people who once doubted you and choose to exist anyway.

It's easy to fight enemies you can hit.

It's harder to stand in front of a crowd that once turned away and keep your head up.

That's the kind of strength I've never had.

Maybe that's why I keep watching her from a distance — not out of admiration, but to learn.

People say you stop learning once you've seen enough of the world. They're wrong. You just start learning different things — subtler, quieter lessons.

Like how to listen. How to let silence speak. How to stop mistaking control for stability.

That's what I'm learning now, slowly, painfully.

Every day I spend around her, I notice another habit of mine breaking. I don't double-check every expression for deceit. I don't calculate responses before I speak. I don't measure every silence as threat or approval.

It's… unsettling. But it's also freeing.

I didn't realize how much energy it took to live like that until I started to stop.

Tonight, as I write this, the corridors are empty again. The lights outside the window glow faintly. The same hum of the conduits fills the air.

It's peaceful.

And for once, that peace doesn't feel fake.

Maybe because I'm not trying to force meaning onto it. Maybe because I'm letting it exist without dissecting it.

Amelia's softening distrust has become something of a mirror. Through her, I can see my own walls beginning to crack — not collapse, not yet, but loosen.

I don't know what comes next. I don't know if the peace will last.

But I know that when it breaks, I won't be the same as before.

And maybe that's enough.

People always say healing is a process. They make it sound clean and progressive, like climbing stairs.

But it isn't. It's circles. You come back to the same feelings over and over, and each time, they sting a little less.

That's where I am now. The sting's still there, but duller. Manageable.

If you'd told me months ago that I'd find solace in watching someone else rediscover her trust, I'd have called it pointless sentiment. But now it's the only thing that feels real.

Because if Amelia can forgive the world, maybe I can start forgiving myself.

The academy clock just struck midnight. Another day begins.

Outside, the wind's rising. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear faint laughter from the dorms — students awake past curfew, whispering, living.

It's strange how comforting that sound is now.

I used to resent it, the noise of other people's lives. Now it reminds me that the world keeps turning whether I'm ready or not.

That's a good thing.

It means I can start moving again too, even if it's slow.

Tomorrow, I'll see Amelia in the faculty hall again. She'll probably greet me with that polite smile, ask if I've eaten, talk about lesson schedules. We'll exchange a few quiet words, and then the day will move on.

But beneath that routine, there'll be something else — the quiet acknowledgment that things are changing.

Not dramatically, not visibly, but quietly.

Like water wearing down stone.

That's how trust rebuilds. That's how life continues.

And for now, that's all I need to believe in.